


The Monster

by OBrownies



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Bromance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Game/Show/Book, Jealousy, Love/Hate, Misunderstandings, Rescue, Sarcasm, Sexual Tension, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OBrownies/pseuds/OBrownies
Summary: Your efforts in hunting down Ciri were encumbered by her Witcher father and as a result, are forced to journey together in order to find her.  Along the way, a budding romance develops between the unlikely pair.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 51
Kudos: 137





	1. Prologue (Smile)

“Merciful Gods!” 

The elderly innkeeper exclaimed as he stumbled backwards into a pile of dirty copper pots. 

“Tis’ only good folks ‘round here, don’t want no trouble now!” The old man frowned as he brandished his crockery in the air.

A commendable effort at intimidation, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his outwardly stern facade.

“Greetings.”

You observed silently beside your acquaintance as he attempted to disarm the suspicious innkeeper with a slight nod; though the gruffness of his voice often elicits more fear than fondness. “We’re here about a contract-.”

“Grandpa Grandpa! Sis dropped ‘er spoon in the soup again!” A girl, no older than 5, interrupted with a giant grin on her face as she sprinted in from the kitchen; tugging at her grandfather's sleeves, oblivious to the situation.

“Shhh, Martha.” The innkeeper cautioned as he pointed to you and the Witcher. 

“Oh ’ello mista!” The little girl smiled up at the tall scruffy stranger upon noticing him. “Got dem ‘awfuly shinny sticks there.” She cited innocently at the assortment of swords in his possession. “How many do you-”

“Shush!” The innkeeper warned once more and waved hurriedly behind him. “Con…contract yer’ say?” He stammered as an elderly woman, presumably his wife, appeared from the kitchen and corralled the girl away to safety.

“Yes, something about a ghost in the old miller’s house.”

“A-are you that witcha they keep tellin' me about?”

"I suppose."

The elderly innkeeper pressed a boney finger against the bridge of his glasses and slid it further up on his nose. 

"Y-yes I see." He nodded after taking a long hard look at the Witcher's eyes. "And you are?" He added, cranking his neck as to give you better look.

“Lose the hood.”

You winced as the Witcher instructed with a jab of his sword to your ribs.

“Kaia.” You grumbled as you fiddled with the hood of your rain-sodden cloak. "At your service."

“Alrigh’ alright’, forgive me wariness. Us ordinary folks are not ‘customed to seein’ you lot very oftn' 'round here.” The innkeeper smiled kindly at your unease.

“Gav’ me a fright ye did.” He then scolded at your Witcher compatriot. “Nex’ time let the comely lass done the introductions ferst lest you want ter frighten people ter death wit those yellow eyes of yers-.”

“The contract.”

“Yes yes. No need ter rush me young man. Tis happened ‘bout three full moons ago, me daughter Mila went ter visit her old nan at the mill...”

Sensing that the rainstorm had ceased its incessant pounding on the mud-straw rooftop, you retreated quietly and opted to let the two to finish their negotiations without you.

Not that you lack the prowess to haggle per se, but it's better to let the Witcher handle these sorts of things as you'd likely to botch it with your lack of patience.

Though the momentary shelter from the pouring rain was a welcoming reprieve, the unexpected remark on your appearance was an even better consolation. 

Despite your humanistic appearance nowadays, the compulsion to shield yourself from the public never faded; a lingering habit you had carried over from when you were tormented for having the looks of a monster.

“The last I heard from Mila was when the neighbor’s kid Nancy went and brought a letter back…”

The innkeeper’s story drifted in and out of earshot as he walked about his establishment in search of his sister’s last memento. The hood you had so desperately been clinging onto slumped back onto your shoulders as you glanced up at the star-filled night sky. Like gems, they glistened in the heavens as the last remnants of the storm drifted off into the distance.

The smell of dewy, fresh air filled your lungs as you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. 

_Screee_

The jarring screech of the tavern door yanked you back to your senses as it was swung open.

“Let’s go.” The Witcher ordered in his usual gravelly tone as he strolled past and mounted Roach, his ever-so-affectionately named mare.

“You stay safe now pretty missus’!” The innkeeper’s grandchildren peeked over the threshold and waved as you two took to the road. You waved back, in spite of yourself, but quickly dropped your hand as the Witcher darted a curious glance in your direction.

* * *

“Thought you disliked children.”

A flock of ravens took off into the distance as the Witcher broke the eerie silence with his unexpected comment.

“I do.” You muttered. "But I don't resent them entirely." 

"Hmmm...Interesting." He mused.

Baffled by his out of the blue statement, you gave him a look of confusion but otherwise remained silent. Your travel companion is not exactly what one would consider a talkative type. His emotionless voice befits his usual choice of dialogue as it addresses the mundane and less philosophical activities like food, sleep, coins… So what’s with him tonight?

“But you smiled at them.”

“So?” You shrugged. “What’s it to you?”

“You don't smile."

"Yes I do."

"Not often."

"What's there to smile about?"

“Pray tell.” He gestured towards the fading torch lights from the town behind.

Exasperated by this senseless conversation, you turned your gaze ahead and ignored him.

A severely dilapidated building came into view as you two rounded a bend near the top of the hill.

“This should be it.”

The rhythmic trotting of the horses came to a halt as you both pulled at the reins.

“Make sure to bring the oil and potion, lest I remind you of what happened last time.” You chattered whist dismounting your mare and retrieving your swords from the saddle. “And bring the steel sword as well, there may be wargs hiding about-”

“You should smile more often.” Your companion interrupted nonchalantly as he sheathed a dagger in his thigh holster.

“Huh?” You stopped your movements and turned to face him. 

His persistence aside, it is the topic of his insistence that has you utterly bewildered. Not only has the man rarely engaged you in any conversation that doesn't involve some level of mocking hostility, the thought of him being so fixated about your smile is just bizarre, to say the least.

You stared on, mouth agape, as the Witcher patted his mare and shouldered his sword.

“You heard me.” He said, leaving you behind as he tracked his way towards the mill.

Thrown off by his words, you fumbled with the straps of your swords and chased after him as fast as you could, nearly tripping on a piece of fallen log in the process.

To your dismay, by the time you reached him, the Witcher had already begun the summoning ritual, chanting quietly as the fire he had ignited engulfed Mila’s memento.

Before you could utter another word, ghouls emerged from the shadows of forest and stalked toward the hill as a giant wailing wraith slithered out of the collapsing mill.

“Why did you say- dammit.” You cursed under your breath as you drew your sword, wishing he had spared a few minutes to answer for his unwarranted comments before he had commenced the summoning.

“Because-.” The Witcher, reaching for the hilt of his sword, said calmly as his eyes narrowed on the fast approaching wraith.

“-at times I also find you-” A flash of silver streaked across the grass as he slashed against a lunging creature. Cries of pain intermingled with the thud of falling corpses filled the courtyard as he effortlessly felled the monsters around him.

"-comely." His lips pressed into a thin smile as he flung a bomb at the pack of ghouls that stalked in your direction. You, on the other hand, could do nothing but stand rooted in place as you watched the ashen-haired Witcher with a dumbfounded look on your face.


	2. The Encounter

**_4 months prior_ **

“Dammit!”

You cursed through gritted teeth after nearly falling to your death as the heel of your boots slipped against the mossy floor of the tiny alcove. 

Grabbing blindly at the walls, the jagged edges of the quartz-lined enclosure sliced through your fingers as you brace yourself against them.

“You lied to me!" You shouted over the screeching creature as it slammed itself against the cave entrance, the force of its impact nearly knocked you off of your feet.

There was only supposed to be one griffin, one! Who knew there would be a whole flock of them instead? Nesting and feasting together on the freaking summit; having a grand old time until you showed up, crashing in and ruining their little weekend get-together.

“N-no! Jorge knew naught’! Lor' Gohrev told me naught’! Jorge was only teh tend to the horses an-

“Shut up.” You hissed at the trembling stable-boy.

“Heavn’s above! What ‘r we goin' do?” Jorge cried into his hands and dropped to his knees as a second griffin slammed itself against the vertical cliff outside, causing a shower of stalactites to rain down from above.

There is no escape; with those territorial beasts swooping incessantly at the entrance of your tiny sanctuary, you were doomed to be stuck in this damp, mossy hole until starvation or dehydration took hold.

Poor Jorge, he had no idea was he was in for when he was tasked to be your escort by his lord. 

"Think, Kaia, think!"

You shouted at yourself and combed through the possibilities of escape. 

It's unlikely to expect any reinforcements, since Lord Gohrev was the one who condemned you to this fate in the first place.

Griffin claws have been known to penetrate steel plated wagons, so facing them head on was a surefire path to an early grave. 

Can't tunnel further into the cave either, as you'd succumb to exhaustion in no time trying to breach through these impossibly-solid crystals.

Throw Jorge out as bait? A plausible solution, but too cruel for your liking.

With no other options left aside from leaping to a certain death, you decided it was time. 

“Stand back.” You ordered, shoving the stable boy aside.

“You are to never speak of what you’re about to see.” You warned.

“Ye-yes missus.”

"Swear it."

Jorge nodded and flattened himself against the wall as you darted him one last look of warning.

Taking deep inhale, you knelt down, untied the worn leather straps around your wrists and shook them loose. 

Hidden beneath your linen sleeves, lines of ancient inscriptions, etched deep into your forearms, luminesced and pulsated wildly as if itching to be released.

A wave of nausea crashed over your stomach as you recited the incantations. In an instant, vermillion inscriptions manifested across your entire body and enveloped you in a scarlet aura that glowed brightly against your pale visage. 

You doubled forward and cried out in agony as the skin on your shoulder blades peeled from your flesh, revealing a pair of black, membranous wings that spanned the length of your body. 

The alcove shook violently and the sound of cracking cartilage filled the cavern as your wings stretched out in its entirety. Time slowed nearly to a halt as your vision sharpened, your senses heightened, and your bones strengthened. 

A vortex of gale-force wind slammed against the cliff as the frantic griffins flapped their wings to escape this new devilry. But their retreat was made in vain, for now that you have transformed, a blood sacrifice must be made.

"Run away Jorge." You ordered through gritted teeth, stalking towards the entrance as your transformation finalized. "And don't come back."

* * *

A wail of pain echoed across the summit as you fell to your knees and plunged your sword into the chest of the last remaining griffin. 

In an instant, the succulent stench of blood and carcasses filled your lungs as you desperately clawed forward and sunk your fangs into the dying creature. 

Before too long, you drained the griffin of his life essence and did not cease until you felt him took his last dying breath.

“Wh-wha.”

Out of nowhere, Jorge dropped to his knees and vomited all over himself as he carelessly stumbled across the carnage you created.

“D-dear Father of Fire, save m-me from this devilry, for I beseechyourprotectio-AAH!!”

In an instant, Jorge’s body dangled limply in your grip as you ripped open his neck with your teeth and feasted on his blood. 

You tried to spare him, you really did. You told him to run, didn't you? Run far far away and never come back. But for whatever reason, he didn’t. Was it an accident? Did he make a wrong turn? Was he worried for your safety? Whatever it may be, there was no going back now; in your current state, the only thing that will satiate your thirst is the blood of a human being, not some pesky over-grown cat-birds.

“Revolting.”

A deep, gravelly voice startled you to your senses as you hastily tossed Jorge's lifeless body aside and scanned for the intruder. 

But alas, as the fresh blood coursed through your veins, your senses dulled, your bones ached, and your gaping wounds seared with pain as you regressed back into your mortal state.

Now weakened and defenseless against this unknown assailant, you heart leaped in your chest as a shadow, accompanied by the distinct sound of an unsheathing sword, loomed closer and closer from the horizon. 

This stranger must've taken the same contract as you did, right? Why else would he summit a mountain infested with griffins? Solo, no less. 

“Gohrev hired you, didn’t he?” You panted, stalling for time and stifling any groans of pain as you tried desperately to hide your degenerative state. 

“He did.” The man stalked steadily closer, only stopping once he was within striking distance. “But he made no mention of these.” He added, glancing around at the massacred creatures before him.

"... I see." You scoffed, slowly pieced together Gohrev’s brilliant scheme. 

The bounty for one dead griffin is worth 500 crowns, a nest of slain griffins is at least 20 times that, but the price for your head? 

“And how much did he offer to pay?” You half smirked and half grimaced as you massaged your sore sides.

“Fifty.” The man answered simply. “But it's going to be a lot higher.”

“Oh yeah?" 

“I was told about a doppler.” The man, now aware of being double-crossed himself, swung his blade in your direction. “But that's clearly not the case.” He narrowed his eyes. “I think you're worth a lot more.”

“That's very lovely of you.” 

“Just what the hell are you?” 

"A very expensive creature." 

Wiping the blood from your lips, you pulled yourself off the ground. 

The once hazy features of the stranger came into focus as a gust of wind blew across the barren landscape.

“The Butcher of Blaviken!” You exclaimed and scanned amongst the carcasses for your sword, as the last remnants of the bloody mists that soaked the mountaintop dispersed in the wind. 

“Geralt will do.” The Witcher, with a swift motion, halted your search as he surged forward and aimed the tip of his sword at your jugular. 

“I’ll ask again.” He said. “What the hell are you? A Burxa hybrid?”

Raising your hands in the air, you slowly edged away from his blade and inclined your head forward as to signaled your surrender. The Witcher however, proceeded forward calmly, matching your pace.

“I’ll tell you, but last I checked, corpses can't talk.” You reasoned, though futile of course, for you had just committed a gruesome act murder before the eyes of the infamous Geralt of Rivia, the most prolific monster hunter known across the land. And while in your monstrous form, no less.

“That’s fine, because last time I checked, corpses can’t kill either.”

Debris of grass and dirt sprayed into the air as you dive out of the way of the Witcher's first strike. You take off, as fast as you could, sliding down the steep mountainside and sprinting past the densely grown forest; unknowingly leaving behind a trail of blood as the thorns of wild roses slashed against your partially exposed body. 

Where could you go? And how will you get there? 

Fallen oakleaves crunched loudly beneath your feet as you turned frantically on the spot. 

Go back to town where you will doubtless be executed? Back to the mountain alcove? Up a tree?

There was nothing to do but to continue with your aimless escape. 

“Arg-MMMM!”

Your screams of pain was muffled by the ground as you faceplant onto the densely covered forest floor, littered with detritus and leaves. 

“Shit shit shit.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you pried helplessly at the unyielding beartrap that had ensnared your foot. To your horror, the mechanized jaws dug deeper and deeper into your flesh with every desperate tug you gave; this was meant for full grown mountain bears and nearly impossible to pry apart without any aid.

_Crack_

Your heart sank as the sound of broken branches grew louder and louder, accompanied by the rhythmic pacing of the Witcher's encroaching footsteps.

"Dammit!! Fuck!!" Your cry of anguish echoed across the forest as you bashed frantically at the unyielding trap with a rock. 

Your heart sank in trepidation as the Witcher emerged from the trees with an uncorked bottle of potion and his sword in hand. He dodged aside with ease as you flung the rock in his direction, never taking his eyes off of you.

"Leave me be!" You demanded, tugging at the chains that rooted the trap-jaw onto the earth. 

The Witcher did not answer, nor did he lower his blade.

"I'll give you whatever you wan-!"

"Shut up, monster."

You nearly fainted from the pain as the Witcher dragged you towards him by the very same chain that had you tethered to the forest floor.

"Painful, isn't it?" The Witcher snarled as you grasped your ankle in your hands. "No less painful than what you did to that boy."

With one jerk of his arm, the Witcher dislocated your ankle.

"Would you believe me if I told you I never wanted to do that?" You managed through bouts of labored breaths. 

"No." The Witcher growled. 

"Of course not." You scoffed to yourself. "No one ever does."

”Say your prayers, monster.”

“You can’t-“

”I can and I will.” The Witcher raised his blade in the air. “Die.”

”Wait!!”

To your surprise the Witcher spared you his blade as he hovered it inches before you face. 

“If I must die.” You panted, biting back the urge to cry out in pain, as you propped yourself up on your knees. 

The Witcher watched, with a look of startled intrigue as you, inch by inch, pulled yourself onto your feet. The broken ligaments of your ankle snapping as you forced both of your heels flat against the ground. 

“At least let me die with dignity, and not groveling at your feet."

With one final glance at the darkening sky, you closed your eyes and resigned to his fatal strike.

But alas, after waiting for what seemed to be an eternity, you remained alive. 

No longer able to sustain past the pain, you dared a peek and fell backwards onto the ground upon finding the Witcher standing merely inches before yourself.

“This. Why do you have this?” 

The Witcher's expression hardened as he knelt before you and reached for the jade pendant hung on your leather belt.

“Don’t touch it.”

You snapped; shoving away his outstretched arm as you slithered back and instinctively hid the pendant in your hands. 

Your sudden display of bravery seemed to have unnerved the Witcher; he grasped your arm and yanked you towards him.

“This pendant, how did you come by it?“

“I bought it from a traveling merchant.” You lied, as you'd done a million times when inquired about this item.

“Likely story.” He rebuffed. Scanning you with his piecing eyes.

“Why does it matter?” You retorted, thrashing your arm wildly in an attempt to rid yourself of his hold.

"Stop struggling!" The Witcher ordered, afflicting you with a harsh blow to the ankle that instantly subdued your hostility.

“Tell me, and I will spare your life.” He said, with finality, as you recovered from the pain. 

You scanned the Witcher's eyes for insincerity as you considered his ultimatum.

“It…belonged to my late teacher.” You relented.

“Mage Ansgar of the Helsinge Isles?”

“Yes.” You nodded with apprehension, suspicious of his knowledge between the mage and the pendant. 

“You must be Kaia then.” The Witcher's amber eyes narrowed into a penancing scowl as he growled your name with contempt. “You're after Ciri.” He snarled, his cat like pupils bore into your soul as he shoved you backwards and swiftly withdrew his weapon. “I’ve changed my mind, you’ll have to die.” 

The sound of clashing blades rippled through the tranquil silence of the forest as his blade collided with the hilt of your dagger. 

Pinned beneath the full force of the Witcher's weight, you wrestled to keep his blade from slicing your throat. 

How could you to have forgotten? Its him! The White Wolf! The adoptive father of the very murderess you seek!

A piece of elfin steel chipped from your dagger and lodged itself in the nearest tree as the Witcher pressed down harder with his blade. This is hopeless, you are unable to escape and too weak to defend... what can you do?

“I know… where… she… is.” You panted through staggered breath as you struggled against the force of his crushing weight.

“Where can I find her?” The Witcher retracted his blade demanded as you gasped desperately for fresh air.

"Tell me!" He barked, sheathing his sword as he ripped the dagger from your hands and tossed it deep into the woods.

“I’ll tell you.” You panted through labored breathing. “If you give me your word.”

The sound of thunder roared in the distance as the towering branches of the surrounding trees danced wildly in the wind. 

“Give me your word that you won’t kill me.”

Silence.

“Give me your word!” You demanded.

“Fine.” The Witcher hissed. “You have my word.”

* * *

_Click click click_

Pressure alleviated from your ankle as the Witcher leveraged his sword against the coil-spring trap and pried it apart with his hands. Rows of jagged, rusty teeth ripped at your mangled flesh, bones, and tendon as it slowly clicked open inch by agonizing inch.

"Thank-"

“But know this.”

You scowled as a hand suddenly gripped you by the nape of your neck and forced your gaze upwards. 

“Once we find Ciri.” The Witcher growled, barring his teeth as he leaned threateningly into your face. “I will not hesitate to carve you into pieces and use you as Drowner bait should any harm come to my daughter.”

You threw off his hand and shoved against his chest.

“Whatever.” You mumbled, swaying to your feet. Almost immediately, your knees buckled and gave out from the intense pain, causing you to topple over again.

Before you had the chance to compose yourself, a pair of powerful hands wrenched you upward and swung you around like a rag doll before pinning you against his body.

“Is that understood, monster?” The Witcher growled, tightening his grip at your arms.

“Yes.” You hissed through gritted teeth, glaring back at him with your icy blue eyes. 

"Good."

Lifting you off of your feet, the Witcher unceremoniously swung you over his well armored shoulder and carried you off into the woods like a sac of barley as droplets of rain soaked the forest canopy.


	3. Debt

The once tranquil and empty crossroad junction now crowded with pilgrims so deep into their idolatry, that even the King’s guards would think twice before asking for them to make way. 

To your right, beneath the infamous Hanging-Man’s Tree, the crowd continue to thickened as they clambered over one another for the opportunity to light the candles that encircled a newly erected alter.

Seated on a rock a few dozen yards away, you carefully removed the makeshift bandages from your legs and slowly dipped them into the stream, savoring the numbing sensation as the freezing mountain spring washed over your wounds and broken ankle. 

Leaving you to nurse your wounds by the river, the Witcher had gone to pay a visit to Lord Gohrev’s with a bag full of severed griffin heads. 

“Let us pray to the everlasting God of Fire! May he protect us from harm as we beseech him for his blessing and love!” Three young priestesses, clad in their virgin white garbs, proclaimed as they, one by one, toppled the candles onto the pyre. The effigy roared into flames and rained down a shower of hot cinders onto the crowd, who barely took notice as they stared, transfixed, at the pillar of purple smoke that rose into the sky.

Jorge’s last desperate plea to his beloved Lord of Fire echoed in your ears as the spectacle continued. The unexpected confrontation with the Witcher had preoccupied your mind so utterly that you hadn’t spared a thought for your unfortunate. 

Remorseful, ashamed, mortified…there isn’t a strong enough word to describe the magnitude of your regret for your actions. 

"A monster.” You shook your head. “Cursed with empathy.”

A splash of water cleared the bank as you gave the water a swift kick of your feet. If the Witcher only knew how much you depside your animalistic instincts, would he still consider you a monster then?

“Bare to our lord your devotion, your loyalty! Give him what you hold most precious for he shall return it a thousand-fold!”

You shook your head and watched in disgust as the priestesses snatched greedily at offerings from the sea of outstretched hands; coins, heirlooms, silk… a scam disguised as a tithe. A lifetime of prayers are worth nothing compared to a few carefully brewed alchemical concoctions.

“Parfumuri și produse cosmetice! Only zree crowns each! Parfumuri- ah, missus, tis a lovely day for a parfum mi-Lady!”

Out of the blue, in stark contrast to the miserable masses, a rather jolly looking merchant appeared out of nowhere and sprinted across the path in your direction without first being given an invitation. 

“Wold yu like to try som' missus?” The traveling peddler's lips stretched into a giant grin as he pulled forth his basket and lifted the lid. Two grey heron feathers untethered from the his pillbox hat and drifted onto your lap as the merchant nodded eagerly for you to examine his goods.

“Rose parfumuri, jasmin’ parfumi, chamomil' parfum…” He went on and on and on, not deterred in the slightest by your continued silence. 

“I see mi-lady." He winked knowingly as you remained indifferent to his peddling. "You are lookin’ fo ze best quality of zee parfumuris.” 

“Lookz here.” He whispered and glanced around suspiciously before lifting a small tab by the handle which, to his credit, revealed a dazzling array of gem encrusted perfume bottles.

At once, your eyes were drawn to a stout, yet elegant bottle carved out of pristine obsidian. The stopper was speckled with rose colored gold as delicate, interlacing vines extended down from the neck of the bottle to the bottom. Leaves made of jade and emeralds adorned the vines as they shinned brilliantly against the jet-black obsidian beneath.

“Is this… osmanthus?” You inhaled deeply as the intoxicating scent of devilwood blossoms filled your nostrils.

“ _Stupendo_!” The merchant cheered. “Tis' osmanthus parfumi. Would you like to take a look?” He offered, to which you nodded.

Humming happily to himself, the merchant hooked a finger around the delicate bottle and wiggled it free from its black velvet cushion. 

"Only fifty-crownz." The merchant added as he wiped the bottle with a tiny silk hanercheif, removing all traces of dust and fingerprints.

Fifty crowns are nothing considering the thousands of crowns you're owed for slaying those beasts. It's been nearly 3 hours since the Witcher had left to see the lord, he bound to return soon with your share of the reward. 

"Here you go mi-lady." With one last nod, the peddler leaned over and placed the vial in your outstretched hands.

"Arrrgh!"

Your abrupt shout of pain stopped the chanting pilgrims as they edged away from the smoldering effigy and searched for the source of the commotion.

“Y-your handz!!” The peddler stagger backwards in shock and pointed in your direction. Bottles of perfume tumbled out of his basket and scattered onto the ground as the peddler struggled to find footing on the uneven ground. 

The crowd muttered to themselves in trepidation as the rattling of glasses rippled through the air.

"Unholy devilry!!" The peddler cried. “Run! Run for your livez!" Dropping his basket for good, the merchant bolted away from the river and waved wildly at the crowd. “The devil iz here! She's zee devil! Run! Flee for your livez!!”

"The devil?"

"Where?"

"Look! A witch!"

"Did someone say a wraith?"

“A she-wolf! An evil enchantress!"

Panic ensued as the the situation snowballed into a full-blown stampede with the crowd rushing away from you in fear.

Whether out of ignorance, faith, or greed, the 3 priestesses barely raised their heads as they gathered the pile of offerings by their feet.

The Witcher, with his perfect timing, appeared from around the bend as the mass of crazed zealots raced in his direction. 

"Witcha!!" Having spotted the ashen haired hunter, a middle-aged woman ran forth and flagged him down with her hands waving in the air. "There's a monster by the brook! Go kill it!" She demanded.

"What are yeh waitin' for?! Go kill the blasted thing!" The woman stomped her foot in frustration as the Witcher returned her frantic insistence with nothing but a mild look of confusion. 

"I haven’t spotted any monste-oh." The Witcher smirked as the woman jabbed a finger in your direction. 

"Prick." You muttered as the Witcher gauged you with a smug expression. 

"I don't work for free." The Witcher crossed his arms and shook his head at the woman as she insisted on witnessing your execution.

"Yeh bloody goatfuckers, exploitin' us good folks fer money when there are monsters runnin' about in board daylight..." The begrudging woman grumbled and stuffed a few coins into the Witcher's folded arms.

"Well?" She asked expectantly as the Witcher examined her meager payment.

"I'll rid you of the beast."

The woman beamed as the Witcher clutched the coins in one hand and drew his silver sword with the other.

"But heed my warning, leave here, stay indoors, and bar your windows until dawn next morning."

"W-why?" The woman asked as she darted a nervous look in your direction.

"No need to ask why, just do it. Unless you want to be force-fed your own intestines by that thing."

"Merciful god." The woman drew a sign of protection in the air, gathered the hems of her skirt and took off. 

The Witcher sheathed his sword and shook his head as the woman disappeared around the corner. He unfurled his fist and tossed the coins into the hands of a nearby beggar who was too blind and deaf to have noticed the commotion.

“As for you." The Witcher said as he made his way by your side. "Two-thousand crowns as agreed, your half of the four-thousand crown payment.” He tossed a tightly bound leather pouch onto your lap. “Along with Lord Gohrev’s sincerest apology.”

You nodded in acknowledgement and dipped your hands into the stream to quench the burning sensation.

"Hey!" You winced as the Witcher suddenly snatched your hands from the water and examined your palm.

"Hmmmm." He furrowed his brows as he traced a finger alongside your freshly burned scars.

Without another word, the Witcher dropped your hands, knelt down, and rummaged his fingers through the fallen bottles on the grass.

"Was it this one?" He asked, holding up the obsidian bottle.

"Yeah." You nodded bitterly.

“The vines, they’re made of silver.” He gathered, admiring the onyx vial in the sunlight. “Pure silver can be deadly to non-humans. But you know that already of course. Lucky for you, this one is a silver alloy.” There was a soft thud as the Witcher tossed the bottle back onto the ground. “Brave of you to touch something silver colored without affirming its identity first." The Witcher said, more to himself.

“Brave?” You sneered, eyeing the discarded bottle, though still wishing it to be in your possession. "Or obscenely foolish?" 

"Obscenely foolish." He agreed.

“Pardon.” A sing-songy voice chirped from behind as you rubbed at the burn marks on your palm.

“Mi-Lord, Mi-Lady. Would you like to hear the story of how the God of Fire cleansed the evil from our land.-”

“No need.” The Witcher interrupted. “Take it, it’s yours.” He smiled and gestured towards the ground. “May the Fire guide your soul. _Ut ignis animae tuae.”_

“ _Ut ignis animae tuae.”_ The priestess smiled back and sprained into action as she gathered the bottles in a hurry, dropping all pretenses. 

“Can you walk?” Asked the Witcher, stepping aside as to give the priestess ample amounts of space to gathered the goods.

Drips of spring water trickled from your toes as you gently raised your leg from the stream. For a moment, those droplets glistened beautifully under the bright morning sun, looking no less stunning than the diamonds that encrusted the bottles strewn about the ground.

Judging by the barely healed gashes across your ankle? The answer is a definitive no.

“Roach then.”

He whistled. At once, a gorgeous mare trotted up the path behind him and nudged at her master as she halted obediently by his side.

“Get on.” He ordered, motioning at the saddle.

“How disappointing.” You mused under your breath as you limped towards the mare. “I was looking forward to mounting a giant cockroach.”

“She might as well be one.”

The Witcher held you by the waist and lifted you onto the saddle.

“You sure this is the direction Ciri went?” The Witcher asked, his tone unconvinced. “Braithwaite is 2-months ride on horseback from here, it's not an easy journey.” He pointed North, towards the ravine.

“That's what I was told.” You answered frankly, unable to offer any more evidence to support your claim other than your own desperation to locate the same person as he. 

Without responding, the Witcher nodded and wound Roach's reins in his hand.

“Wait!”

The horse huffed as you pulled back against her reins. 

"What?" 

“Go this way.” You instructed. 

The Witcher hesitated.

“Please.” You added, pointing down a worn path that strayed off of the main highway. 

"Fine." To your surprise, he agreed without any argument and guided Roach down the small path.

* * *

Though it was noon by the time you had arrived at your destination, the heat was of no bother as the densely grown canopy provided ample amounts of shade from the sunlight. 

"It's here." You gave a quick pat on the Witcher's shoulder and directed his attention to a worn-down cottage up ahead by the road.

“I got this.” You insisted and shook off the Witcher’s outstretched hands and sloppily dismounted Roach. 

Picking up a fallen branch, you leveraged your weight against it and limped your way towards the cottage with the Witcher following closely behind.

"Wait here." You nodded at the Witcher and motioned for him to stay by the gate.

“Comin’! Comin’!”

A middle-aged woman with wrinkles etched deep around her eyes greeted breathlessly as she answered your knock at her door. 

“Dear heavns! Ye alrigh’ miss?”

She exclaimed. You surmised her shock was due to your hooded appearance and your face full of fresh bruises and scratch marks.

“Is this-” 

“Not now! Go to your brother!” The woman smiled apologetically as she shushed away a small boy, ushering him to join his 3 brothers and sisters. 

“Is this Jorge’s residence?” You inquired once more, though could already tell by their resemblance.

“Jorgie? Yes, I am his mother.” She nodded, an expression of concern came over her face. "Who's askin'?" She frowned. 

"I am... a friend of his." You pinched the tip of your hood and removed it as a gesture of good faith. "Sasha." You lied. Sasha is a common name in this area, perhaps the familiarity of that moniker would put her more at ease. 

“Sasha..." The mother scratched at her messily piled hair. "No, can't say I know a Sasha with your face. Well anyway, he’s not 'ere.” She shook her head. “He's workin' up in the castle, under Lor’ Gohrev."

"I know." Your response sounded graver than you had intended. 

"Is-is he causin’ trouble?” The woman's voice dropped as she wrung nervously at her sodden apron.

“No. Not at all.” You did your best to muster a smile, but produced an awkward grimace instead.

”Y-yeh sure?”

“Jorge is fine.” You reassured with a more convincing grin. “I was told-” You reached into your pocket and held out the purse with your half of the earnings. “-to deliver this to his family.”

The woman let out a small gasp as you placed it in her hands.

“What’s in here?” Her eyes widened and her brows furrowed as she weighted the coins in her hands.

“A gift from Jorgie.” You smiled. “To help with... ” You paused and looked around at the dilapidated house. "Living expenses."

“Oh my sweet Jorgie.” The mother smiled fondly and laid a hand over her heart. "My sweet sweet Jorgie. He’s all grown up. There mus’ be at leas’ fifty crowns in ‘ere!” She exclaimed as tears welled in her eyes. "I've never held this many coins in my life!" An obvious statement as the woman couldn't discern weight difference between fifty crowns and two-thousand crowns. "His father would've been so proud."

Unable to bear the guilt any longer as Jorge's mother continued her praise for her so , you replaced your hood and readied to leave.

“Oh! Wait missus! Will you please com’ in fer som’ tea?!”

“No thank you.” You declined.

“Are ye sure?” The mother insisted. “There’s soup on the stove. Com' in for a spot of lunch.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

"Well, um, have you any more news of Jorgie? Is he doin' well up there? Does he need more clothes for the winter?"

"I-I don't know."

"Would yeh mind lettin' him know I'll be visiting with his sister three Sundays from now and-"

"We must leave." You breathed a sigh of relief as the Witcher's gruffy voice interrupted from behind.

"W-who are-" The mother's eyes darted back and forth between you and the white-haired stranger.

"Geralt of Rivia." The Witcher responded as he took you by the arm. “Pardon.” He nodded towards the mother who had already retreated inside and latched the door shut. 

"Thank you." Your outward appreciation of the Witcher's help rather dry and simple, but the gratitude you felt inside was much more heartfelt.   
  
He could've just let you suffered in shame, which you rightfully deserved for having murdered the woman's child, but for whatever reason, had chosen to save you from the emotional torment.

The Witcher, as expected, gave no verbal reply but, to your surprise, acknowledged you with a quick pat on the arm instead.

"Let's go, Roach." He ordered before leading the mare back on the road.

* * *

The rest of the day lagged on for far longer than you'd have liked. Despite having atoned for taking Jorge's life, the thought of his death still lingered in your mind; he wasn't the first person you've murdered for food, but he was the first one to have not deserved it.

As the sky grew darker, you and the Witcher found a nice little clearing and decided to camp for the night. 

In your moment of impetuousness, you gave away every last coin in your possession and failed to consider how you would be able to feed yourself for the next few weeks. Having filled your stomach with nothing but a handful of wild berries and a few crabapples, your stomach protested loudly as it ached with hunger.

The Witcher said nothing as he steadily worked the makeshift spit, pausing only to glance at the darkening horizon or to listen for any suspicious sounds.

The tantalizing smell of roasting wild game clawed at your insides as you tried to distract your hunger by admiring the hazy evening sun. 

A loud sizzling sound broke your train of thought as a glob of goose fat dripped onto a pile of fiery embers. An enticing scent emanated in your direction which did nothing but exacerbated the pain in your stomach. Pressing a hand against your face as you attempted to evade the smell, the overwhelming scent was just too impossible to ignore as the delicious juices dripped incessantly from the bird. 

Will he offer to share? You wondered. You can't be expected to feed yourself seeing as you are now both lame and penniless!

Why did he only bring back one goose? Is one goose enough for the both of you? How much does a Witcher eat?

Waves and waves of smoke wafted in your direction as the goose slowly turned a beautiful golden-brown. 

Unable to stand it any longer, you pushed yourself onto your feet and hobbled away from the fire and settled beneath a giant alder tree.

Does he really expect you to hunt for you own food? 

You frowned, rubbing at your ankles as you recalled how the Witcher purchased a loaf of bread ealier and ate every last crumb of it without offering you any. 

At that thought, you snatched a pebble from the ground and tossed it indiscriminately into the pitch-black forest. 

The Witcher stirred in your periphery, no doubt alerted by the sudden disturbance.

Should you just ask for some food? What if he says no?

What if you were to pay for it? Would he agree then? 

Or perhaps he’d be willing to negotiate another form of payment...?

No way.

You groaned and shook your head.

No way he would give up his precious dinner in exchange for your time when there are scores of gorgeous sorceresses dying to share his bedchamber. 

Besides, the only emotion you’d arouse out of him would be disgust anyways, being a revolting ‘Bruxa hybrid-monster’ and all. 

You scoffed.

And Yennifer of course; oh Yennifer, his famous squeeze; and Triss, Keira, Fringilla, and no doubt plenty of other's you’d pale in comparison to.

"Whoa...huh?" You swallowed hard as a goose leg suddenly materialized before your eyes.

“Here.” Munching away at his share, the Witcher brandished the leg before your face.

“It’s not poisoned.” He reassured against your inaction and tore off a small chunk with his teeth as you licked your lips in anticipation. "Do you want it or not?" He asked. 

“Thanks.” You muttered, accepting his offer and proceed to tuck in with giant bites.

“That’ll be twenty crowns.”

“Twenty?!” You exclaimed, nearly choking on the meat. “For one lousy goose leg?” You stared in disbelief, wondering if he'll consider a discount if you’ll spit out what's left of it between your teeth.

“Twenty.” He repeated, completely unaffected by your outburst. “Twenty-five with interest.”

“You fu-” You raised the half-eaten leg in the air and aimed it at his head, contemplating the most effective way to weaponize it.

“You know you could’ve afforded a hundred of these.”

You paused as the Witcher said with a blasé expression. Obviously referring the two-thousand crowns you gave away this morning.

“Would you not have done the same?” You questioned, slightly amused, but mostly annoyed; the bastard knew it was for a good cause. 

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wouldn’t have killed him in the first place.”

And with that, the Witcher had just undid his good deed from earlier. 

Why must he remind you of this when he's well aware of your distress on the topic?

That was quite cruel of him.

Fuming, you silently stuffed what's left of the food into your mouth, chucked the bone into the fire and stormed off. A spot of ash landed in his canteen as a fountain of embers erupted from the force of your throw.

As you the wiped the grease from your fingers tips, a suddenly urge compelled you to check behind. 

Peeking between the low-hanging branches, you watched as the Witcher sat motionless by the smoldering fire, as he had been, and stared into the horizon; one arm resting on his knee while the other braced him against the ground.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

You shook off the urease and resumed walking. 

But just as you removed your gaze from him, you caught a glimpsed the Witcher darting a glance in your direction with a mischievous smile on his lips. 

By the time you managed to gathered a clear look, the Witcher's momentary bemusement was replaced by his usual emotionless expression as he sat, stationary, facing the fire once more.

Was he just trying playful earlier with the insensitive comment about Jorge? Had you mistaken his attempt at humor for something else entirely? Did you imagine all of this?

Unable to discern whether that was real or imagined, you eventually decided the mystery wasn't worth losing any sleep over and curled up against a tree. 

One way or the other, one thing was for certain; you were now indebted to Geralt of Rivia, over a fucking goose leg.


	4. Xespian Sea

“Full moon tonight.”

The Witcher remarked, his locks of ashen hair shinned a vivid shade of silver as the moon shone down upon the two travelers with the full force of its radiance. 

“Are you sure?”

You mocked and swirled your head in a circle as if searching for the enormous orb that hovered unmistakably before your eyes.

Cock, your newly tamed steed, stammered nervously as the sudden, eerie howling of wolves in the distance disturbing the tranquility of the night. 

Hidden beneath your hood, you watched the Witcher drew an Axii sign before his mare. “Good girl, Roach.” And praised under his breath as he patted proudly at his unnaturally calm ride.

"Heh, Cock and Roach." The hems of your cloak fluttered along with your shimming shoulders whist you amused yourself with silly thoughts.

“Will you turn?”

Upon the Witcher's interrogation, you stopped your quiet giggling and glanced over.

Though his relaxed posture gave no indication of any unease, you were still able to detect a trace of agitation hidden beneath his languid motions and speech.

“Yes…I’m afraid.”

The Witcher tensed slightly as you feel his pulse quicken by a few beats and watched as he calmly laid a hand on the hilt of his silver longsword. 

“Once the moon has risen past this celestial body.” You straightened your arm and raised it dramatically into the air and pointed at a random location in the sky.

“My subconscious will arise and compel me to seek out the nearest living creature so that I may prance around them naked whist expelling a fountain of juniper berries out of my arse until I have them crushed into a pulp, from which I shall slurp until the break of dawn.” 

The Witcher provided no rebuttal as he expelled one prolonged exhalation, removed his hand from his sword, and readjusted his balance on his saddle. Despite his outwardly lackluster response, your theatrics must’ve evoked some level of regalement as he raised an eyebrow and threw you a look of amusement... or perhaps confusion? Who knows.

"Scared?" You taunted.

"Yes."

"Really?" You frowned at the Witcher's admittance. "You slayed a wyvern in Velen with nothing but a crossbow and 10 silver arrows. What's there to be afraid of some Bruxa hybrid?"

" _I'm_ not afraid of you." The Witcher gave you a stern look of caution. "I'm afraid for the people around you." 

“Right.” You scoffed. "I am more afraid of these _people_ than they are of me, master Witcher.”

"Why is that?" 

"Because-"

You hesitated as those painful memories flood in from the past.

There was a time, before your training with the mage, where you were ostracized and tormented by the very same _people_ the Witcher so desperately protected.

Like the time you were pelted with rocks and arrows for trying to save a drowning girl in a lake infested with Zeugls; the poor child succumbed because the misguided villagers drove you away in fear of your demonic appearance.

Or the times you were forced to roam as a homeless traveler in fear of being captured and burned alive as you were always the primary culprit to blame for any inauspicious events that occurred around the places you had settled.

Or the times you were captured by Witchers, only to be released at some undisclosed location and chased down by their wealthy benefactors, men who delighted in hunting down the likes of you for sport. 

At that thought, you placed a subconscious hand upon your shoulder where a silver arrow had pierced it once; had you not removed it out of reflex immediately after you were stuck, you’d been a pile of unburied bones right now. 

Yet, despite the Witchers' role in your demise, you held no ill-will towards the rest of their kind; for you, more than anyone else, know of the afflictions that come with being misjudged for other's misdeeds.

"Because, to us." You forced a sneer on your lips and swallowed back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm your senses. "Humans are the monsters." 

The Witcher's gaze remain locked onto your eyes as he offered no verbal refutation to your statement. Though his expression remained passive, there was a warmth to his eyes as he gauged you in silence; as if to commiserate your unspoken pain with experiences of his own. 

The smell of devilwood blossoms perfumed the air as a gentle breeze brushed through the wild-grown Osmanthus trees that flanked the deserted trail. 

Eager to alleviate the headache that resulted from recalling the unsavory details of your past, you dropped your hood, loosened your hair pin, and allowed you waist length hair to spill down your back.

“Hmm.”

“What?” You asked, a little perplexed by his sudden interjection.

“You remind me of-”

“Don’t say it.” You snapped, brushing a strand of your silver hair from your face.

Having studied under the same maester, you’ve grown quite weary of hearing those comparisons being made; unique magic, long silver locks, bright colored eyes...who else could he mean but Cirilla?

No, you've had enough of the past for today.

“You remind me-.” The Witcher continued as if your interruption was of no consequence. “-of a noble countess I once encountered in Glariea from one of my visits there during my youth.”

“Was her beauty beyond anything you could imagine?” You batted your long eyelashes in flattery, but your words were rife with sarcasm.

"Hmmm." The Witcher stroke his chin as he reminisced. 

“Hard to tell.” He said after pretending to have pondered for a while. “She was lying face down in a ditch, I hadn’t the heart to disturb her peace."

Reckon he had earned it for such a horrible joke, you took an indiscriminate swing in the Witcher's direction. 

Yet, in spite of him jesting at your expense, you acknowledged the Witcher for his attempt at lightening the mood. Perhaps it's an expression of his acceptance of you as a person, or perhaps he was unsettled by your melancholic demeaner; or perhaps he was just bored and needed a distraction. Whatever his reason may be, it still does not diminish your appreciation for his humorous effort. 

* * *

At last, after two months had passed, you and the Witcher finally arrived at Braithwaite harbor.

Even as dusk settled around the harbor, Braithwaite, also known as Little Skellige, was still teeming with life as it would have during daylight. At the docks, fishermen unloaded their last crates of the day, while another group readied their sails for a spot of nighttime squid fishing. Transport wagons, loaded with barrels upon barrels of freshly netted fish, wobbled their way up the dirt-paved road, dousing the occasional passerby with fish guts as it's contents sloshed about in the wooden barrels. It was preferred have these goods transported at night as the lack of heat and sunlight slowed their decay. 

"Here." The Witcher handed you a greasy parcel as the two of you settled in for the night on a secluded corner of the beach; the lack of accommodations in Braithwaite was not a result of their hostility towards travelers, but rather the lack of travelers themselves. 

"I don't recall asking you for dinner." You frowned.

The Witcher seated himself by the fire and took a drink from his flask. "You didn't." He replied.

"Why this then?" You held out the bag of fried fish in your hands as the Witcher tucked into his portion. 

With your ankle still on the mend, you were limited in the ways you could earn a few coins. 

While the Witcher went after more valuable preys like golems and cockatrices, you had to settle for deer antlers and rabbit pelts. You were sure to have notified him when you had spent the last of your coins on some bread and cheese from the day prior, why would he make this purchase knowing there would be no repayment?

"You're hungry aren't you?" He countered, fishing the bones out of his haddock with a knife.

"No." You were adamant with your denial, unwilling to fall for the goose-leg trap again.

"You're lying." The Witcher glanced up from his food.

"Oh?" You challenged. "Prove it."

Tossing the last of the haddock's spine into the ocean, the Witcher stuffed a sizable piece of the fish into his mouth and chewed slowly as he savored its tender, juicy flesh. 

You watched, drooling, as the Witcher stared at you with taunting eyes while taking another bite.

"That's the face." 

"What face?" You questioned, appalled by his sudden smugness.

"The face of a hungry Bruxa." He smirked. "I've seen it enough times to know when it needs to be fed."

" _It_." You hissed, not entirely pleased to be referred by him as such. "Thinks it would rather have a taste of some bloody carnage instead." 

The Witcher's face fell as you removed the leather straps around your arms and rolled up your sleeves. "What are you doing?" He demanded.

" _Feeding._ " 

The Witcher gave chase as you took off into the darkness. 

"Fuck!"

You laughed as the Witcher fell into the trap you had so cleverly disguised ealier. 

"Oh look!" Peering over the edge of the 8 foot hole, you mocked as the Witcher attempted to scale the sandy walls. "I've caught some dinner!" 

In truth, the hole was a genuine effort by you to trap some large game; but, as always, you couldn't resist having some fun when the opportunity knocked at your door. 

"Say _it's_ sorry." You chuckled and extended a hand into the cavern. "And I'll release you from your confinement." 

"Confinement?" The Witcher scoffed. "That's hardly the case." 

You laughed harder as the bed of seaweed that had camouflaged the trap slid down into the hole as the Witcher grab ahold of it in an attempt to hoist himself up. 

"How about this then. Say _it's_ sorry." You threatened. "Or else I-" You pressed a finger atop the inscriptions on your arm and started chanting in gibberish.

"Bruxa!"

"I'm waiting." You smirked and muttered a few lines of incantation, causing the etchings on your arms to glow red.

"Dammit! Fine! I'm sorry!"

"Who's sorry?"

" _It's_ sorry!"

"Attaboy-Ouch!"

A gurgle of pain escaped your lips as the Witcher grabbed a hold of you and pinned you onto the sand upon being rescued from his prison. 

With your throat in hand the Witcher tilted your head from side to side as he scrutinized your face in the faint moonlight.

"You didn't recite the incantation." He remarked, lifting your upper lip with a finger as he examine your perfectly normal teeth.

"Very observant." You smirked and attempted to bite him as he pressed a fingertip against the sharpened ends of your canines.

"Want to hear the real thing?" You offered and cleared your throat in preparation for the recitation. " _Ad dominumque constituit rerum universarum: et dereliquerit-_."

Your chanting was promptly silenced by the Witcher's glove as he slammed it onto your mouth. 

Waving your hands in his face as a sign of surrender, your muffled laughter escaped between his fingers upon noticing his horrified expression.

"Oh cheer up master Witcher, don't be such a bore." You retrieved his half-eaten dinner and offered it with a smile. "I was just having some fun."

"I don’t approve of any _fun_ that's had at my expense." The Witcher snatched his food from your hands and reseated himself by the fire. 

"Boo-hoo." You scoffed. "What about that time you tricked me into eating a whole were-cabbage, hm?"

The Witcher paused his chewing and sniggered.

" _This herb is of the sacred mountains."_ You mimicked in a deep, gravely voice. _"It will expedite your healing process_ \- you know my taste buds are still trying to recover from that god-awful thing right?!” You chided. “Would you have done that to your precious Yennefer? Hmmm?"

"No...” The Witcher trailed off and remained quiet for a few seconds. “Yen, isn’t very fond of my..." He paused once more. “No, she would've ripped my head off."

You watched as the Witcher grew more and more despondent to with each answer.

For a moment, you pitied him. A life bereft of humor is no better than not having a life at all. The poor bloke was already emotionally stunted from his upbringing as a Witcher, but must now contend a lover who vehemently shunned what remained of his humor.

Grateful for your unrestrained freedom to delight in laughter, you decided to drop the topic of his unreciprocating lover. 

"Yet I didn't." You added, instilling an tone of playfulness in your response. "You're welcome." 

"Touché." The Witcher smiled as he reached forward and handed you your parcel.

"And how many crowns will this be?" You asked.

"This one is free of charge." The Witcher offered as he gave you a small nod. "Truce." He added, noting your hesitancy.

"Truce." You smiled. "Thank you." 

* * *

“Tis’ impossible.”

“Two-thousand crowns, that’s more than triple the cost of the usual fare there.”

It wasn't until evening of next day before you and Witcher managed to track down a ship that was willing to book travelers for commission. But unfortunately, they were willing to traverse to the end of the world _except_ for Cirilla's location. 

“Yer can offer the Queen mother’s tits in a bowl ‘n a King’s werth in gold ‘nd I’d still tell yer, tis impossible ter get there dis time of teh year.”

“Let’s go.” You shook your head and snatched the bag of gold from the Witcher’s hands.

“Aye! If yer manage ter find a shyte-head stupid enough ter take ye across the sea.” The leather-skinned captain called as you departed from his creaking ship. “I will cut off me’ cock ‘nd fuck me-self ‘n the arse!” He made a phallic gesture with his bony hands and roared with laughter.

“I’d like to see that.” You glowered in his direction as the crewmen joined in with their captain’s mockery.

“The pleasure is all yours.” The Witcher pursed his lips as he scanned around Braithwaite harbor.

It’s as you had anticipated; no person of sound mind would venture into the North Xespian Sea past mid-autumn. Condemned as the _Kraken’s_ _Treachery_ , the expansive waters were tricky to navigate even for the most experienced seamen under optimal seafaring conditions. Attempting anything during the winter months was a sure way to give yourself a death-sentence.

As a last ditch resort, the Witcher visited the ship of a retired navy officer on account of being owed a favor by him. But his hope, it seems, was misplaced. 

“You insult me Geralt.” Captain Zolak shook his head with discontent as the Witcher inquired about the island. “You know I’d never take a coin from you, so why insult me by making such an offer?” He sighed and tossed the bag of crowns back at the Witcher as he took a deliberate draft from his soot-ridden pipe. 

“I apologize but I must decline my dear friend. She’s too wild, too volatile…the risk is too high." Captain Zolak sighed once more and turned to face the darkened sea. "I’ve seen her freeze to the bottom of the seabed and thaw all within half a fortnight. Icebergs the size of glaciers appearin’ out of nowhere. Frightened men speak of strange creatures that lurked beneath the surface, luring sailors into the waters to only appear in the morn’ with naught but their clothes and bones...” 

The captain's story faded into the distance as you picked up the sound of creaking footsteps below deck. The ship, you were told, had been emptied.

"Dis is it." You frowned as someone whispered from beneath. "I'm sure tha' white-haired witcha is up thar sir." This voice, it belonged to captain _Queen's-tits_ from earlier.

"I'm sure it's 'im captn'." He continued. "Saw it wit me own eyes, carried two swords on 'es back, a big fookin' scar down 'es face 'n-" 

"Yes, but Zolak, you're my last hope, Ciri is missing." 

Your espionage was interrupted as the Witcher pleaded to his friend. 

"Forgive me Geralt, I worry for Ciri as well, but I'll only be sending you to your death-"

"I will triple your pay."

Leaving the two men to their conversation, you retreated from the cabin and stalked your way down a flight of wooden stairs.

"The fooker said 'es name's.... is.... uh... Jerald of Riverrun! That's it!" You nearly laughed as Captain _Queen's-tits_ reported with a snap of his finger.

Jerald of Riverrun, gotta remember that one.

"Good good." Another voice, from an unknown person, commended as he sniggered to himself. "That wiry cunt up there is worth a mountain in gold I tell yeh, Lord Vernium even signed the bounty himself..." The paused was followed by the sound of unfolding parchment. "Look."

"Good god! Five-thousand crowns." Captain _Queen's-tits_ exclaimed in a hushed voice. 

"Exactly." The other person concurred. "Let's get outta dis fuck hole and I'll give yeh a run down of my plans."

You rushed to follow as the two exited from a porthole. 

Tailing behind, you listened as the two schemed the Witcher's capture.

"As soon as we get back to the compound, I'll give orders for my men to encircle Zolak's ship." The unknown person whispered; presumably a captain of the local guards as his cape bore the Redanian coat of arms. "We'll ambush the fucker as soon as he's out of the docks." He guffawed. "I got bolts and arrows laced with basilisk venom, that stuff'll have the bastard dead before shit falls outta his asshole."

You stopped your tailing and hid behind a stack of barrels as the two men disappeared behind the door to the guard's compound. 

"Interesting." Intrigued by this unexpected development, you contemplated on how you were going to inform he Witcher as you made your way back to Zolak's ship.

Upon your return, you find the the two men were still engaged in conversation. 

“I know you’re a great Witcher, Geralt.” A few scraps of burnt tobacco fell onto the deck as the Captain tapped his pipe against the sheath of the Witcher’s sword. “But trust me, there are still foes in this world even your skills and weapons can't handle.”

"Understood."

“Stay safe my friend.”

“Thank you Zolak.” The Witcher said bitterly as he bid his old friend goodbye.

"That was it." He grumbled as the two of you departed the ship. "Looks like we are to wait until winter’s passed then.” He sighed and untied Roach's reins from the post. 

Smirking to yourself as the Witcher remained oblivious to the guards hidden around the dock, you decided this was another opportunity at payback for having ruined your taste buds.

"Winter..." You mused, doing a noting the number of guards as you counted their individual heartbeats. “See you back here in five months then, master Witcher.”

“Where are you going?” He asked, looking baffle by your sudden declaration of departure.

“That’s my business.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” 

Your hands slipped to your dagger as the Witcher raised an arm before you and barred you from your saddle.

“You are not to leave my sight until Ciri has been located.” 

“I assure you, my good lad.” The silver cuff of the Witcher’s sleeves clinked against the stirrup as you shoved away his arm. “I'm not stupid enough to risk my wings to fly across _this_ monstrosity.” You gestured towards the sea with a slight tilt of your chin.

“I don’t doubt that.” The Witcher said, replacing his arm before you. “But there are no guarantees you won’t try to get a head start.”

“What if I give you my word?” You sighed, pretending to be exasperated by his stubborn insistence.

“A promise from a Bruxa has no credence.”

Ouch. Those words stung harder than you had expected. 

“There’s no more to be said then. Goodbye.”

“You’re not going anywhere-”

“Oh fuck off!”

In a flash, fishermen, locals, peddlers, and the army of guards surrounded the harbor as the two of you crossed blades. 

“Hey hey hey!! What’s goin’ on ‘ere?! Don’t make me use my stick!”

The captain of the guards, the very same one from Zolak's ship, shouted as he pushed his way through the crowd, his balding head shining like a polished beacon in the flicking torchlights.

“You two want a ride to the gallows eh?! Keep fighin an’ I’ll throw in some free nooses too! Drop yer swords!!”

As if on cue, you and the Witcher simultaneously retracted your weapons and dropped them by your sides, all without taking your eyes off one another. 

"What are you two up to eh?"

You ignored the captain as, from behind the Witcher, a few guards raised their crossbows and aimed it at their target. You watched in trepidation as their forefingers hovered over the trigger.

There was no time to warn the Witcher as one of the men squeezed his finger.

The bolt missed the Witcher’s head by a mere millimeter as you shoved him aside. 

None around noticed the assassination attempt on the Witcher’s life as the roaring sea masked the sound of a discharging crossbow, plus, the dimly lit harbor hid the fired arrow from sight as it lodged itself in a bag of grains on a ship docked on the very far side of the harbor.

“Help!” You cried out suddenly like a madwoman and forced a few drops of water from your eyes. “Murderer! Help!” In no time, tears streamed down your cheeks as you pointed a shaky finger at the Witcher.

“He… he’s going to kill me! Save me your righteousness!” You sprinted towards the crowd and ran into the arms of the baffled captain. Once close enough to his person, you laid a finger on the captain's exposed wrist and subtly traced a pattern that quickly placed him under your spell.

"Fuckin' knew it! The only good Witcha is a dead Witcha!” The Captain held you in his arms and soothed your hair. "Grab him!"

"Uh sir... you sure about this?" One of his guards hesitated as the Captain waved for his men to detain your compatriot. "Weren't we suppos-."

"Are you questioning my authority?!" He Captain cried as he smacked the guard on the head. "Grab the fucker, I said!" 

Burying your face in your hands, you couldn’t contain it any longer as a devious smile stretched across your lips.

What could the Witcher do? Kill everyone in sight? Fend off the whole town by himself? No, no, the Witcher must comply.

“Take him to the cells boys and put up the gallow! We got ourselves a hangin' tomorrow folks!”

* * *

A wash of orange and pink bathed the town square in a warm, brilliant hue as shouts of protest filled the otherwise, tranquil morning air. 

“We were promis’d a hangin!”

“Hang the Witcha!”

Muffled cries of the town's ire seeped into silent courtroom as the magistrate glossed over your file of complaint with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“A lover’s quarrel eh?”

The magistrate drawled as he peered over his monocles.

“Yes your honor. A senseless squabble between a desperate woman and her lecherous husband.” You proclaimed indignantly before him, pinching yourself in the thighs as to refrain from accidental laughter.

“Is that true?” The magistrate nodded to the prisoner on your right without sparing you a second glance.

The Witcher, looking slightly disheveled, stood with his hands bound before him.

"I thought we called a truce, Burxa." He hissed through gritted teeth. 

"A truce with a what?" Alarmed by your new moniker, the magistrate straightened in his chair and scowled. "You're a Bruxa!?" He exclaimed. 

"See, your honor? How my husband can be so callously referring to me so?” You pouted. "No affectionate pet names, no more _I love you my sweet sugar-plum_ s, no-nor even a kiss to bid me good morning for the past month..." You buried your face in your hands and sniffled loudly.

"Enough, Bruxa." The Witcher warned as he growled at your theatrics. 

"But he won't think twice to squander our savings on cheap ales and flea infested whores." You continued. 

"A callous man indeed." The tassels atop the magistrate's cap swung back and forth as he shook his head at the Witcher. "Well? Master Witcher? What say you?" He asked whist darting the Witcher a disapproving glance

The Witcher contemplated for a moment and grumbled. "Yes. Your honor.” 

" _Yes_ what?" You pried, dabbing at your imaginary tears.

"Yes my dear. I shall refrain from forming any and all adulterous relations without your permission from henceforth today." The hoarseness of the Witcher’s voice matched the be grudgingness of his stance as he threw you a look contempt. 

"Oh my sweet, handsome, _honey-buns_." You cooed and make your way to the weary Witcher. "Attaboy." You taunted in a whisper. 

"Kiss me, my love!" You then requested with a coy smile and awaited with puckered lips. Though joking of course, and braced yourself to either be slapped or shoved away by the Witcher.

"Fuck off." The Witcher hissed under his breath and nudged you aside with his elbow.

"Your honor!” You gasped. “He just said a very bad wor-"

Your tattletaling was interrupted as the Witcher pulled you forth by the arm and gave a you a quick peck on the cheek.

"Satisfied?" He growled.

You gave no answer.

Something... happened, an unexpected occurrence; a spark, a warmth, a jolt of electricity threatened to unsteady your feet when his lips made contact with your skin. It was not painful, quite the opposite actually. His lips were soft and gentle in contrast to the rest of his tough, rugged appearance. 

A kiss from the Witcher, you quite enjoyed it. 

But a succubus never could derive pleasure from physical contacts, lest its with someone they loved. 

This amalgamation of feelings you're experiencing from just a peck on the cheek... Hold on, does that mean you're falling in love with the bastard?! 

"Well?" The magistrate prompted at your silence.

"Oh, ye-yes." You feigned a hasty grin upon your face. "Very satisfied."

"Good." The magistrate sighed loudly as he slammed his gavel.

“Case dismissed. Get out of my courtroom.”

* * *

“My apologies, master Witcher.”

You placed a hand around your waist and bowed mockingly from atop your horse. The feigned smile on your lips lingered as the Witcher glowered at you with scornful silence. 

Having been chased out of the town by an angry mob that was promised an execution, you two were forced to flee back onto the road. Thankfully, the tiny dirt path remained just as deserted as before, except now garnished with a light dusting of snow. 

“My purse, it was confiscated.” The Witcher demanded with an outstretched palm. "Return it at once.”

“Life is cheap, as they say, except a Witcher’s apparently.” You remarked. “Your life just happened to be worth exactly two-thousand crowns.”

“I will be repaid before the month is out.”

“Must I explain it again?” You sighed. “Let’s revisit, shall we?” 

The Witcher did not reply.

“While you were busy chatting up an old friend. I overheard Captain _cock-in-me-arse_ and Captain _beacon-head_ planning your arrest because Captain _shinny-dome_ happened to know of a bounty that was placed on your head.”

You paused to brush off a low hanging branch that had snagged against your saddle while your companion continued to look straight ahead.

“They were going to ambush you with basilisk venom laced bolts and behead you that very night.” You concluded and glided a finger across your neck. "Capeesh?"

“Bounty from whom?”

“Lord Venerumumum... or something rather.”

“Hmmm. Lord Vernium still haven’t gotten over that incident huh?” Witcher nodded to himself, conceding to your story. “I suppose you're owed a _thank you_. But-.” The Witcher continued before you had the chance to speak. “-what would’ve happened had I not prevented you from leaving? Would you have allowed them to take my head for, as you say, Lord Venerumum?”

“Why of course not!” You feigned an expression of bewilderment. “I’d hate to be deprived the pleasure of severing your head from your body myself.”

“Naturally.”

“In all seriousness.” You continued, dropping your airy pretense. “I have no intentions of leaving, and I had planned on incapacitating the captain before he could round up his posse, but... things happen.”

“Why didn’t you clue me in?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You shrugged. “Except… though I hadn’t foreseen the magistrate to have set your bail at two-thousand crowns. A funny coincidence I suppose; your freedom costed the exact amount that you were carrying on your person. ”

The Witcher leaned forward and gave a low chuckle as he shook his head in agreement.

“Anyway." The Witcher a quick breathe. "Who was your sword master?” He asked with an uncharacteristic gleam in his eye. “I must commend him on his nice foot work and riposte technique." 

A bit caught off guard by his sudden curiosity, as the bulk of his questions usual revolved around your heritage or of Cirilla, you thought back to the tussle by the docks and recalled the techniques from his inquiry. 

“Ever heard of Piere Anchesoie?”

“Yes.”

“He taught me that trick while making an extended visit at Mage Ansgar's residence.”

“Hmm, Ciri made mentions of Anchesoie before when she-.”

“Where are we off to next?” You interrupted, having no interest in hearing his anecdotes of her history.

"Novigrad.”

“Novigrad…”

“Is there a problem?” The Witcher asked, though he had framed it to be more rhetorical rather than an inquiry.

“Somewhat.” You answered frankly.

“I’m that not overly fond of those who reside there either." The Witcher sighed. “But I have business to attend to with Triss."

"Triss Merigold?"

The Witcher nodded.

Sorceresses...great.


	5. Pasty Shyte

_Ptooey_

A disgusting glob of spit landed precariously close to your feet as an unknown passerby spat in your direction.

“Witcher.”

The passerby scorned as he made an obscene gesture with his crooked finger. 

“What is dat pasty shyte doin’ here!?”

Across the dirty road, another man hollered as he flung the contents of his mug at your companion, splashing the remains of his barely-ale onto the road. The vomit textured liquid made a loud sloshing noise as it hit the pavement, nearly soiling your new pair of leather boots as old barley mash sprayed into the air.

For the poor, residing on the outskirts of Novigrad has its perks. Given the privilege to interact with the educated and cultured masses that trickled in and out of the free city on the daily, these peasants have earned themselves the reputation as the most civilized peasants amongst the impoverished classes. Yet, despite their purported worldly view and sophistication, you, on the other hand, find these suburbanized peasants to be more superstitious and fouler tempered than their rural counterparts.

“Fuck outta ‘ere you hedge-born’ vagabond!”

“Don’t cause a scene.” The Witcher warned as you stepped impulsively towards the aggressor, ready to slap him. Though his face remained impassive, The Witcher’s tone was nothing less than authoritative, for he was sure to have noticed your growing agitation with every step towards the city.

Adjusting the brim of your hood, you drew your cloak closer and lingered behind to allow for some much-needed distance between you two; not wishing to be the inadvertent target of the oncoming showers of phlegm.

“Albino swine! -top of the mornin’ to ye mi-lady.”

You ignored the greetings of a squalid looking man as you trailed behind the Witcher. It was unnerving to see the peasant’s face transition so seamlessly from that of intense loathing to courteous pleasantry. It was as if he held no personal grudges against the Witcher himself but rather it was just a customary thing to insult the ashen-haired man without thinking.

The Witcher, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the barrage of invectives, accustomed to such treatments no doubt. He kept quiet and maintained his stride as he treaded towards the city gates with a rather vacant expression. 

Unbeknownst to him, however, your perceptions are a lot keener than what he would be led to believe. Observing from behind, you unraveled his unyielding charade by taking notice of his every step, every movement, every twitch, and every spike of his heartbeat.

Over time you've come to recognize the distinctive patterns of his behavior that were indicative his favorable mood; longer strides, brighter eyes, shorter breaths to just name a few, and for some reason, winding Roach's reins in clockwise manner. But none of that is present; even Roach's leather reins were tightly wound in the Witcher's hands in a counterclockwise fashion. 

This Witcher you've come to know is not an unfeeling man; you were sure he's concealing something far more poignant behind that apathetic demeaner. Whether his porcelain mask was forced upon him or born of his own stoicism, it does nothing to disguise the autonomic responses of his body which reacted to every insult he had received today thus far. 

Perhaps it's something else that had him so low spirited?

You took a moment to scan around the area. 

The weather was pleasant. The scent of the last remnants of this year's gardenia blossoms lingered in the air, and there were no monsters for miles around. The evidence was clear, the Witcher's agitation was born of the unwarranted verbal abuse and nothing else. 

“Mornin’ mista!” A boy and his friends waved eagerly from the roadside. “May I ‘ave a peek at your sword?" He asked, holding up his own wooden sword that bore the Redanian coat of arms. 

“No Skjak! Do naught speak to the likes of ‘im! Him ‘n his kind are works of th’ devil!”

You watched as the boy’s horrified mother rushed from her thatched roof hut and whisked him away whist glaring at the Witcher as if he had placed some unimaginable cursed upon her and her kin.

Don’t these idiots realize that Witchers hunt monsters? The very same monsters that would rip them apart without a trace of thought otherwise? Shouldn’t his presence bring about sense of security instead of antipathy? Shouldn’t they be frightened of you instead?

Of course not. Your human form was far more preferred by these people than the Witcher's scar ridden face.

What if you transform right now, before their eyes? Will they shun the Witcher then? Will they still call him those repugnant names? 

You narrowed your eyes as the Witcher glanced momentarily to his side in acknowledgement to the passing Redanian guards.

Despite his animalistic pupils and the scars that were strewn across his face, the Witcher’s appearance is nowhere as hideous as people make it out to be. The rugged garb on his person did little to conceal his god-like physique as his armor often strained against the bulging muscles beneath, nor was the ethereal nature of his ivory hair and pale complexion stifled entirely by being coated in layers of blood and grime. 

In fact, upon closer inspection, he is rather handsome.

“The Witcha is comin! The Witcha is comin’! Run!” Your thoughts were rudely interrupted as kids shouted at the top of their lungs.

_“Witchers come in the dead of night. They take boys from their beds, rip infants from their mother’s breasts, and force upon them poisonous concoctions until they themselves transform into one of their kind. These accursed fiends are doomed to roam the lands, hunting monsters and humans alike, provided only if they’re afforded the right compensation.”_

What a shame, having one’s institution and tradition exploited and bastardized by parents who wish to frighten their children into submission…

“Accursed fiends my ass.” You grumbled to yourself.

You have witnessed this Witcher give coins to orphans that begged beside the road whilst merchants, clad in lavish garments, turned away in disgust. You have witnessed this Witcher refuse payments from widowed mothers whose husbands and fathers were slain while their lords, in the comfort of their castles, levied ever more taxes against the poor. 

Setting aside whatever personal grievances you have with the Witcher on account of your grudge against Cirilla, the man has not intentionally sought to incur your wrath. Aside from the occasional jests that is, which you were sure he did to alleviate the mediocrity of the journey rather than out of pure hostility.

“Freak!”

No, it’s not Geral of Rivia that’s the freak. You watched in silent resentment as people jeered from the roadside stalls. It’s those the Witcher ostensibly protects that are the true freaks.

“We’ll dine here this evening and find lodging elsewhere for the night." The Witcher briefed as you two neared a tavern.

"Aye, goatfucker!" A man with rotten teeth and pox marks called as you two passed by him by the tavern's stable. "I heard Witchas'll do anything fer money." 

"The city will re-open at dawn." The Witcher continued as if he heard nothing.

"Here!" The man yelled as he he tossed a coin in the Witcher's direction. "Com'ere and lick my boots clean-hahaha."

"And we’ll make for the western gate-.” The Witcher halted abruptly and shoved you in the shoulder.

In your state of ire, your fangs protruded past your quivering lips as you snarled viciously at the Witcher’s antagonizer. You dug your nails deep into your palms in an effort to contain the rage that would otherwise have you lash out at the man who dared to insult his character. 

“Are you turnin-.”

“I’m not.” You interrupted, having been jolted back to your senses by his push.

"Then why are you-"

"Let me at him." 

The Witcher glanced you pointed at the man with the rotting teeth. 

"I think he's doing a good job of dying already." He remarked as a trickle greenish droll seeped from the man's blackened gums. "Why?" He asked. "Hungry?" 

"Starving." You growled and lurched in the man's direction.

The Witcher, a in swift motion, caught you by the arms before your landed your first step.

"I don't think he'll taste very good." The Witcher remarked, seemingly perplexed by your sudden anger. "Why are you so concerned with him?" He asked.

"He was being very rude to you."

The Witcher, no doubt thrown off by your juvenile assessment, gave a short laughed. "You've said worse." He said, releasing your arms. "So you draw the line here, but not at _pasty shyte_?"

Placating your anger with a swift punch to the stable wall, you threw a nasty look at the guffawing man with a mouth full of sores and dung covered boots.

"You _are_ a pasty shyte." You growled. "But I'm sick these fucking idiots insulting your charac-Oh shut the hell up!!." 

The Witcher's expression softened as you broke off and kicked the coin back at the offender who initiated another round of verbal attacks.

"Who the fuck do yeh think yeh are bitch?" The man, now with a coin stuck on his face, shouted. "Do tha' again 'n I'll fuck yer lil cunt up!"

And you did, with a pebble this time.

"Come on." The Witcher chuckled and dragged you towards the tavern door before you could land your second kick. "Let's get you a drink."

* * *

“Comin’ sire!!”

The barmaid shouted over the jig and waved her fuchsia handkerchief in the air as the Witcher signaled for a refill of his ale. 

To your relief, his presence went largely unnoticed by the merry horde of drunkards who were too preoccupied with chugging from their tankards and groping at the sauntering strumpets.

“An acquaintance of mine.” The Witcher briefed as the barmaid refilled his drink, spilling half of it in the process, no doubt overwhelmed by her demanding patrons. “Not the sorceress.” The Witcher added promptly, noting your sour expression. “Resides in the Rosedóttir district in Novigrad. We shall find more permanent accommodations there once were in the city.”

“Here yeh are! Everythin’ good sir?”

The Witcher nodded in appreciation as the owner set before him a healthy serving of roasted pork and potatoes.

“This acquaintance you speak of.” You mused as you took a sip of your drink. “May I venture a guess as to his identity?”

“Enlighten me.” The Witcher cocked an eyebrow as he raised his fork to his mouth with a doubtful expression. 

“ _If you wish, my love, at my side to repose...-”_ You placed a hand upon your chest, raised the other before your face, and recited with an enamored gaze into the distance.

_“-My heart would inquire of your hands pale and fine, if they'd grasp it gently, to hold like a rose..._

_Or grasp me elsewhere and leave me satisfied?_ ”

“Mhm.” The Witcher, with a subtle exasperation in his sneer, nodded in defeat. “You are well versed in Dandelion’s work I see.”

“Regrettably.” You shuddered.

“Is that how you came to know of me and Yennefer?” He inquired, though with subdued interest, as if the question was more of an obligation than of sheer curiosity.

“Of course. And a multitude of your other more… scandalous affairs.” You tapped the tip of your finger to your lips and smirked. “The unicorn, how naughty.”

The Witcher said nothing as he chewed slowly and narrowed his eyes.

“Pay up laddie.” A fleshy hand laden with cheap jewelry appeared above the table and snapped impatiently. “I ain’t usually ask fer me customers to pay dis early but tis’ been thieves’ about these areas ‘n I musn’t let it affect me business.” The tavern matron waited with a testy look on her face, unmindful of her interruption.

“I’ve only got a few more crowns to spare.” The Witcher said as he paid the matron and resumed his dinner. “Work will be hard to come by as most beasts prefer to hibernate until the first spring shower-.”

“I know how my kind operates.” You interrupted. “Have you forgotten?” You parted your lips and slide your tongue across your teeth, taking particular attention to the sharp, retracted fangs that flanked on either side.

The Witcher, to your astonishment, flashed a rather mischievous smirk at the sight of your amorous display.

“Ahem.” You pressed your lips together and cleared your throat.

“What about the money I’m owed?”

“Fretting about your twenty-five crowns?” You pursed your lips and rolled your eyes.

“Two-thousand and twenty-five.” The Witcher leaned forward and corrected with a sneer.

You ignored him.

“And how will you earn it?” He continued. “Steal it?”

“In spite of the insurmountable amount of evidence that says otherwise, no. Sorry to disappoint.” You scoffed and scanned the Witcher with incredulity. “Cities like this are always in short supply of translators, scribes, arithmeticians and such. Besides, I'll outcompete those that offer mediocre servic- I’m not an unlearned person you know!” You defended upon seeing the Witcher’s cynical expression. 

“Forgive my blunder, master Witcher.” You tilted your head in contrived apology. “An unlearned _Bruxa_.” You snarled.

“So what are you, exactly?” The Witcher asked as he waved his knife haphazardly in your direction. “Tell me about your lineage.”

“It’s impolite to inquire about some one else's history without first disclosing yours.” You snapped, barely audible over the loud tavern music and drunkards singing.

"You seem defensive."

"I am."

“But you know of my history.” The Witcher answered simply, tilting his head at the tavern bard, no doubt referencing his old pal, Dandelion. “Besides, I must confess, the prospect of hearing your story fascinates m-.”

_Crack_

You barely flinched as a half empty mug flew across the room and shattered against wall beside your head.

“Aye boi!” An inebriated brute bellowed as he staggered towards your table. “Aye you! You oatey colored shyte! Are yeh deaf?!” He continued, cursing at the Witcher, as he swayed back and forth by the table.

“We don’t like yer kind here! So fuckoff befor’ I knock yer fuckin’ teeth out!”

Seems like they've finally noticed the Witcher's presence.

“Aye! Aye! He’s talking to yer! Ye doxy-fuckin’ freak.” An army of thugs swarmed the table as you both continued to ignore them in silence.

"Yeh pig-fucking cunt."

"Why don't yeh eat outside in teh pigstyle with the rest of yer kind?"

"Aye girly." A scrawny man, older than the others, leaned against your chair and sneered. “Wha’ yeh doin’ with the likes of him? Hm?”

You responded with a nasty glare.

"How 'bout yeh come wit us eh? Don't waste yerself on this ugly fuck-"

“Don’t call him that.” You warned.

“Don’t touch her.” The Witcher surged upright as differently man, stinking of urine and rotten food, bent over and draped a hairy arm around your neck.

“Wha chu gonna do about it Witcha?” The man taunted as he tightened his grip around your shoulders. “You ugly motha-fu-”

“Enough!!”

The fiddle ceased playing and silence befell the tavern as you both shouted in unison.

A loud crash reverberated off-of the grimy stone wall of the tavern as your fist made contact with the tabletop. The rabblerousers, who were so eager to disturb just a minute before, now staggered backwards in shock as a heap of splintery wood collapsed inward where the table once stood.

The Witcher, with a fork still in hand, marveled at the unfortunate victim of your outburst. “Two-thousand and thirty crowns.” He updated, examining the broken table by his feet. 

“Gentlemen.” With a smile more menacing than that of a noonwraith's fleshless grin, you stood from your chair and addressed the crowd. “This ugly mother-fucker.” You gesture with an open palm towards the bemused Witcher who glanced rather disapprovingly at his designation. “Is Geralt. Geralt of Rivia.”

A buzz of murmurs circled over the room as people maneuvered to get a better look at the infamous Witcher.

“And I suggest you start referring to him as such.” You threatened with a growl. “Or else-.”

“Or else I’m gonna stick my boot so far up yer asses you’d be shittin leather for a fortnight.” A dwarf, stout, with a face full of curly auburn beard and a fistful of half-eaten cheese sandwich, placed himself between you and the onlookers. “Don’t go ‘round disturbing good folks yeh bloody scoundrels." He shouted at the men. "Away with ye! Ye darn scallywags!” 

"Who yeh callin' scallywags yeh potato-headed fuck."

"Call me a potato-headed fuck again and I'll rip yer cock off!"

The Witcher snatched your wrist and pulled you aside as you reached for your knife, eager to join the dwarves in their fight. 

"While I appreciate your dedication to defending my honor." The Witcher moved you back even further as the dwarf and his henchmen wrestled with the troublemakers. "I would've rather have not had my dinner disturbed."

"Don't pretend like you weren't fed up with them either." You hissed.

"I wasn't the one who smashed a table."

"It was either the table or his head."

"...I would've gone for his head."

You and the Witcher shared a chuckle as the dwarf grabbed the brute by the scruff of his neck and tossed him out like dog.

“Fuckin’ thing’s useless." The dwarf kicked the pile of broken table and motioned for you and the Witcher to follow. "Can’t even handle a poundin’ by some dainty lass. Ahahaha-” You lurched forward as the dwarf reached up and smacked you, rather painfully, on the small of your back.

“’pologies for the disturbance!” The dwarf barked at the crowd and snapped his fingers for the fiddlers to resume. “Put the fuckin’ thing on my tab!” He jerked his thumb towards the broken table, placating the tavern owner's exasperation.

“So you _are_ the famous Geralt of Rivia, aye?” 

“Yes.” The Witcher answered in a monotonous tone as he took a seat across from the dwarf.

“Don’t know how I didn’t spot yeh earlier, but I do suppose it is a bit dark in ‘ere eh?” The dwarf beamed as his henchmen set a pair of freshly filled tankards on the counter.

“I suppose.” The Witcher replied. Though simple in his words, his posture suggested a more friendly disposition as he gave the dwarf an appreciative nod and reached for a tankard.

You, on the other hand, hesitated at the dwarf's hospitality, not wholly accustomed to befriending a stranger so suddenly.

“Come come, no need ter be all tense with me, we dwarves only bite if yer take a bite ferst.” The dwarf laughed as he clinked his tankard against your mug and pushed it in your direction.

“Cheers.” You relented and sipped your drink whist the dwarf and the Witcher drained their ale in one gulp.

“I don’t know if yeh remember.” The dwarf nudged the Witcher as he wiped the ale from his beard with his sleeve. “But yeh saved my father from a Mula back in the day. Near Lord Ghallahan's castle. Tall and lanky feller with a twisted back and a broken thumb?”

The Witcher shook his head. “I’d remembered a tall and lanky dwarf if I’d ever encountered one.” He said.

“Well…” The dwarf sniggered. “Tall and lanky ter us dwarfs, probably shaped like a long stick of shyte in yer eyes eh?” He laughed. “Nah, you wouldn’t remember, tis was years ago.” The dwarf continued. “Me dad was out gatherin’ fire log ‘n wanrdered too far into the swamp 'n a fuckin’ vampire attacked him- Eat, eat!” The dwarf urged kindly as two fresh plates of food were brought to the table. The Witcher stuck his fork into the hunk of meat and sliced it cleanly with one swipe of his hunting knife.

“Me dad said the thing nearly split him waist ter shoulder until some albino looking feller with slit-eyes came out of nowhere and cleaved the blasted creature’s head in two.”

“Hmm. I remember now.” The Witcher mused with a slight smile on his face. “He went by the name Gwafe.”

“Yes!” The dwarf beamed excitedly at the mention of his father's name. “And yer told my old man he’d have ter pay, but since he had nothin’ on him, yer took his damn firewood!” He roared with laughter and gave the Witcher a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“I think yer let the old-bastard off cheap! I’d have demanded ter fuck his woman if I just risked me neck to kill som' blasted bloodsuckin cunt!" The dwarf let out a hearty laugh. "Aye, but good on yeh Geralt, that's one less vampire in teh world. God, I fuckin' hate those slimy cock-suckin' creatures.”

"Not all of them are horrible." The Witcher remarked as he stole a quick glance in your direction.

“Oh! Pardon me language.” The dwarf caught his tongue, seemingly to have mistaken the Witcher's glance as a consideration for you lady sensibilities. “Are yeh…” The dwarf gauged you up and down with his beady little eyes. “Tha Yennefer they speak of?”

“No, she's not.” The Witcher answered quickly. “She only my traveling companion for the time being.”

“Traveling eh? This time of ‘th year? Where yer guys headed?”

 _Only_ a traveling companion? You thought to yourself. Ouch.

You ate in silence as the Witcher and the dwarf entertained themselves. 

Soon, people braved themselves and approach the table to gander at the curious new pals. Some were even bold enough to offer a good word or to request a handshake from the famous Witcher.

As the flow of alcohol escalated, a few patrons even begun requesting tales of the Witcher's travels in exchange for beer and ale, for which, to your surprise, the Witcher obliged. 

You listened as the ashen haired hunter spoke of the time he was tasked with tracking down a pack of alps; though you were underwhelmed by the horrific details as he described the creature's claws; for yours are far more terrifying.

The Witcher isn't usually this amicable, you mused. Nor as talkative; it must be the alcohol. 

"What about the sorceress?" Someone interrupted.

"What _about_ the sorceress?" The Witcher retorted, sounding rather defense.

"Aye, was she there?" They asked. "Yennefer of Vengerberg." 

"Perhaps." He replied. 

"Will you tell us about her?" A young girl asked as her eyes sparkled with avid curiosity. 

The Witcher shook his head.

"Please sir?" The girl pleaded as she propped her chin in her hands. "I really like stories about the mages."

"No." The Witcher hesitated before he answered, his amicable demeaner from earlier slowly diminished.

"Please?" The patrons nodded with eagerness as the girl refused to relinquish.

"I've said enough for one night."

"How could you say no to that face?" You interjected upon noting the devastation in the girl's eyes. "Are you going to make me beg too?" You smiled at the child and placed your hands together in a show of petition on her behalf.

"Fine."

To your surprise, the Witcher relented, a lot easier than you had anticipated.

"At that time, Yen had been captured the Scoia'tael near Dunland." He begun.

A forlorn sense of melancholy seeped into your core as the crowed simpered at the heroic and romantic rescue of the Witcher and his sorceress lover.

Not wanting to be subjected to the very story you had coax him into, you focused your attention on the rest of the rowdy tavern instead; mothers and fathers dined with their children while young, merry couples danced the night away in each other’s arms. Friends laughed at each other’s jokes and arm-wrestled for rounds of free beer. Heck, even the lonely old man in the corner had an escort or two vying for his attention.

"Hear hear!" The small crowd cheered as the Witcher concluded his tale.

The Witcher, it seemed, is as loved as he is despised. 

Where’s your Yennefer? Your Dandelion? Your Ciri? Is there anyone out there who cares if you’re dead or alive? 

No, of course not. Cirilla had killed the last person you had. 

You were truly alone. 

“Ready?” The Witcher tapped your shoulder as the crowd dispersed.

You nodded quietly and expressed that you'd like thank the dwarf for his hospitality. 

"Don't be long." The Witcher heeded before leaving to gather the horses.

"Thank you, for your kindness." You smiled and offered a hand to the dwarf, who had went off to use the facilities.

"Travel companions eh?" The dwarf hiccupped as he took your hand. "Unlikely."

You frowned at the dwarf's skepticism. "You doubt that, master Dwarf?"

"I counted sixty-three."

"Sixty-three what?" You questioned; did the Witcher eat sixty-three portions of potatoes or something?

"He glanced at yeh sixty-three times."

You raised a quizzical brow at the inebriated dwarf as he swung precariously from side to side. 

"Sixty-four." A pretty woman in her early forties amended with a smile as she slid out her chair and offered it to the dwarf. 

"I was listenin' ter his stories from a table over." She clarified as you gauged her with the same quizzical look. "In truth I didn' count or nuthin." The woman shrugged.

Glancing around the room to ensure the coast was clear, the woman waved you over and raised a hand to her mouth. "But wit the way that Witcha was actin'? I'd say he's head-over heels in love, missy." She whispered.

"How-."

"Experience, m'dear." She interrupted. "I know a love-sick laddy when I see one."

"Oh he sure loves his Yennefer alright." You sneered, unwilling to entertain the absurdity that is you being the object of romance for this love sick _laddy_.

"Yennefer? Who said anythin' about that grisly bag of weed?" The woman scoffed. "I'm talkin' about _you,_ yeh silly goose." 

"Me?" You exclaimed. 

"Yes, _you!_ " The woman sighed in exasperation. "He was barely able ter take his eyes off yeh the entire time. Did yeh not notice?"

You shook your head. "He was probably just making sure I didn't slip away and run off." You muttered to yourself.

" _Tsk tsk."_ The woman shook her head. "And here I thought men were teh ones who're clueless 'bout love. He's left yeh alone here now hadn't he?"

Good point. But still.

"And tha' face he kept makin every time he see yeh looking back at him- bloody hell, he's comin'." The woman interrupted and pressed a finger to her lips. "Au revoir." She winked and blew a kiss in your direction as the Witcher stood by your side.

"New friend?" He asked as the woman sauntered off.

"I... don't know."

You observed the Witcher's face as he remained distracted by the woman's exchange. 

Walking, eating, riding... the Witcher's face is all the same. 

You leaned in closer, unable to recall any drastic changes in his expression throughout the night.

What blasted _face_ did the Witcher purportedly make whist you returned his glances? A grimace? Frowns? 

In truth your mind was so preoccupied with your melancholic thoughts that you paid him no attention at all.

"Keep gawking at me and I'll gouge your eyes out, _Bruxa_." The Witcher warned as he noticed your unflinching stare.

Ah, there's the Witcher you know. 

"I couldn't help it." You said, maintaining your eye contact. "I couldn't help but marvel at your..." You trailed off, failing to find the right words.

"A Bruxa's compliment has no credence." The corner of the Witcher's lips tugged upwards whist maintaining the seriousness of his voice.

"That was no compliment, my good sir." You refuted his statement as you two made your way to the stable. "I don't marvel at people's beauty."

"What do you marvel at then?"

"People's stupidity."

You laughed as the Witcher jabbed you with the end of his sheathed sword.

* * *

The inn, to your relief, was dead silent, as the guests were fast asleep in their private quarters.

“Here you go, handsome.” A well-endowed chambermaid winked as she leaned over the table and refilled the Witcher’s mug. 

“More?” You remarked, in slight astonishment, as the Witcher drained his 7th pail of alcohol for this evening.

“Refill?” A different girl, with straw colored hair and an ample bosom, asked as she leaned in to fill his drink. “Your rooms will be ready soon.” She cooed.

“Wait.” You nipped at the careless maiden.

“What?” She snapped.

Drops of the honey colored liquid dripped onto your fingers as you hovered a hand over the Witcher's unsullied ale.

“He doesn’t drink mead.” You chided.

"It's fine."

A callused hand brushed yours aside before the Witcher gestured for the maiden to continue.

“Rosetta’s ale, for next time.” The Witcher reminded as the blushing barmaid walked off and took a swig of his new drink.

Taking a huge gulp. “Yup, just as I remembered it. Tastes like Lord Sullivan's piss.” The Witcher chocked into this mug and grimaced.

"How do you know what his piss taste- you know what, don't tell me." You gagged at the imagery.

“How did you know I hated mead?” The Witcher asked, reaching for your water to chase down his suffocatingly sweet drink.

“You never order it.”

“Hmmm, taking note of my habits then? Wouldn’t be too hard for you to poison me.”

You remained silent as the Witcher drained the rest of your water. “Now, about your lineage.” He asked, wiping the water off his lips.

“Why don’t we discuss the little bird that snitched on me.” You insisted, having no intention of discussing your past with anyone, especially a Witcher. “Concerning my grievances against Cirilla.”

The Witcher paused as he mulled over your request.

“I suspected you were after her once the news of Mage Angsar’s death reached Kaer Morhen.” He said, lowering his voice. The flickering flames of the nearby fireplace danced in amber of his eyes as the Witcher leaned in closer and placed an elbow atop the table. “It’s well known amongst magic users that Mages rarely offer tutelage to … your kind.”

he Witcher paused, and then you indicated for him to continue.”

“So, for him to have made an exception, there must’ve been a reason behind it. Whatever it may be, his death was no doubt an immense detriment to you. Therefore-”

“Who told you about my pendant?” You interrupted again, having already inferred the remainder of his explanation. The pendant was a gift from Mage Angsar upon the completion of your first transformation, and somehow the Witcher was able to recognize upon your first initial encounter.

“A little bird.”

“Was that bird a swallow?”

The Witcher’s silence confirmed your suspicion. 

So it seemed that broadcasting people’s private business runs deep in the family; first that troublesome bard, now the swallow, Cirilla. Had you known she’d been so liberal with your personal life; you’d never have engaged her in friendship to begin with.

“Pity.” You smiled, suppressing your anger as you bit down on your tongue. 

“Ciri couldn’t have done it.” Said the Witcher, slowly, though with absolute conviction, as he looked deep into your eyes. “The Ciri I know would not have caused harm to Maester Angsar.” Yet, for but the briefest of moment, his conviction wavered. "Unless he deserved it." The Witcher concluded, though not as decisive as before. 

You studied him closely. Does he refuse to sanction an admission of her guilt? Is he unable to bear the thought of his ward becoming an irredeemable murderer? Will he compromise his perception of justice and morality in the name of protecting her innocence? 

“Why are _you_ searching for her?” You decided to break the silence as the Witcher grew uncharacteristically restless against your aberrating stare.

“I’ll tell you.” He consented. “If you tell me about your lineage.”

“Hasn’t Cirilla spilled the beans already?”

“Only that she was excited to befriend someone like her, who’s different.”

“I’m nothing like her.”

“Then tell me what you’re like, or I'm forced to assume otherwise.” The Witcher wasn’t going to relent. 

Against a well-practiced negotiator like him, you weren’t going to win.

To hell with it.

“My mother was a succubus.” Not knowing what compelled you to disclose the truth to this man, you begin to tell your story.

“Mother?”

“Not a Bruxa. Sorry to disappoint.” You scoffed as the Witcher smirked at your disclosure. “She died in childbirth. My father…” You trailed off.

The Witcher did not pry as he allowed you time and patience.

“…is Ingemald-”

“Of Dusslegadre?”

The Witcher interrupted as he straightened his back and knitted his brows with staunch incredulity.

“Of Dusselgadre.” You repeated

“Ingemald has a daughter?”

“I guess so.” You leaned back and spread your hands as if saying _Ta-da! Here I am_.

“How old are you? How come I’ve never even heard of you?”

The Witcher’s eyes glistened with interest as he began to besiege you with questions. 

“Ingemald was a prominent ally against the Sergians during the invasion of Kaer Morhen.” He continued in your silence, eager to discuss. “I've spent countless hours on the battlefield with him, your father and I stormed the battlefront against the predecessors of the Wild Hunt side by side and-” The Witcher stopped abruptly upon noting your attempt to appear disinterested.

Leaning back, the Witcher tilted his head as a gesture of apology for his overt enthusiasm and motioned for you to continue.

“I’m 23… in human years, at least that's when I first begun my training under Maester Angsar. I do not recall my actual age.”

The Witcher, you surmised, with his vast knowledge of monsters, is well aware of how higher vampires aged; they don’t.

“Why forego immortality?” He asked.

“It was either that or forgo my humanity.” You paused. “Morality.” You corrected sarcastically. “Sympathy, empathy, compassion, whatever you want to call it.” 

“Semantics.” The Witcher smiled, for the first time, a genuine smile that conveyed his unspoken appreciation for your predicament.

“So if you’ve gone through with the transformation, why can you still-” He pointed at the inscriptions hidden beneath leather straps of your arms.

“It was nearing completion, until your daughter decided to ruin that.”

“So, you’re out for revenge?”

“Yes.”

The copper mug tinked quietly as the Witcher drummed his fingers against its rim, finally grasping the enormity of Cirilla’s actions and its subsequent effects on your life. 

However, little did he know that revenge wasn't the only thing weighting your mind; for in exchange for Cirilla’s life, you could be granted a human existence. The Elder blood that flowed through her veins contained more magical power than anything a mere sorceress or mage could conjure. And, for obvious reasons, the Witcher would be kept ignorant of that particular revelation.

“So, your father, Ingemald.” The Witcher resumed his discussion on the original subject knowing there was no convincing you of Ciri’s innocence without proof, just as you couldn’t convince him of her guilt without it either. “He made introductions of your siblings at Kaer Morhen, but he made no mention of you.”

“I was born out of wedlock; fathers don’t typically care much for bastard children.” Time did nothing to erase the painful memories of your abandonment; the bitterness in your voice was barely masked by your emotionless delivery. “I was practically raised as an orphan.” You straightened your shoulders and took a deep breath. “He’s dead anyways, nothing more to say about that.”

“But higher vampires are immortal.” The Witcher challenged, crossing his arms.

“Immortal, yes, but not immune.” You shook your head, a little baffled by how narrowminded and daft some people can be, Witchers included. Just because some pig-headed scholar wrote it in a textbook doesn’t make it any more factual than the crooks that claim to sell _cure all_ potions.

“The Chiropta plague of 1277. Wiped out half of the vampire population, some higher vampires included.” You replied.

“Indeed. Hmm. Fascinating.” The curious gleam in the Witcher’s eyes intensified as he ruminated to himself. “The genetic mutation in higher vampires were said to have evolved to destabilize infections that would otherwise devastate normal vampiric populations.”

“The plague of 1277 contained a new strain of receptors that was mutated from the plague of 1203. The modified virus was endemic in the local Plumard population until it crossed into the general populace from cannibalizing contaminated corpses. Infected vampires of lesser breeds died within 3 days, but it could take up to a month for higher vampires to pass away.” A grin stretched across your lips. “They said my father choked to death on his own bloody vomit.”

"Shame. I didn't know he had passed away." The Witcher heaved a sigh, but otherwise showed no further reaction to your father's misfortune. "He was a great fighter."

“I would give you my regards but…” The Witcher continued. “But it seems you’d be unreceptive to the idea.”

“Clever observation.” You sneered.

“However.” The Witcher, with a look of sympathy as if he himself was wounded by your pain, sighed deeply. “I would like to apologize on his behalf.”

You frowned.

“A father should never abandon his daughter.” The sadness in his eyes was unmistakable. “No matter what.”

“I don’t need your pity.” You swallowed to stem the flow of tears that threatened to escape your eyes. The Witcher refrained from more dialogue as he reclined against his chair and waited respectfully for you to speak.

“But…thank you.” You nodded after a long pause. concealing your smile by biting your lips. “Not every man is capable of being a loving father like you.”

“The room is ready for you, my darlings.” The jingling of keys disrupted the moment as the chambermaid returned with a ring of keys twirling about her finger. “But only one vacancy available tonight.” She transferred her gaze from you onto the Witcher as she concluded her announcement with a smirk.

“Will you take the room anyways?” She leaned her voluptuous hip against the table and asked in a husky voice as she leered your companion with longing eyes. A little too obvious for your taste.

“If you do decide to take the room.” The other ample-bosomed maiden from earlier interjected as she waltzed her way towards the table. “Just know that the inn closes in an hour, and we’ll be done with our duties in about quarter past that.”

There was no denying it, they wanted the Witcher experience. 

You watched with interest as the two busty maids blatantly ignored your presence while they flirted shamelessly with the white-haired hunk of sculpted muscle that's seated across. Surely, they deserve some sort of reward for unleashing this level of brazen coquetry onto a stranger they had only met merely a few hours before.

Was your platonic liaison with the Witcher that obvious? You wondered, somewhat appalled by their lack of acknowledgement.

“We can join ya for a pint later if you’d like.” They offered. 

Sheesh, was taking a wild ride on the Witcher express that popular of a pastime for the ladies these days? You rolled your eyes. Perhaps you should give it a go and see what the hype is about.

Familiar with the routine now, as your Witcher compatriot had yet to reject a maiden lest a scheduling conflict was involved, you took the man's mug and drained the last of his refreshment before quickly gathering your belongings. 

“I’ll scout around the local area for a while, see if I can locate any noticeboards." You briefed.

"Why are you leaving?" One of the girls questioned. "You know you can just wait by the bar." She offered.

"No, thank you." You answered.

"Why?"

"Because."

Like you would ever tell her. 

Even the Witcher was clueless as to why you'd always depart, no matter the time of night, and refuse to be within a mile's radius of him and his companion. Perhaps you'll tell him one day, but right now is not the time.

"I’ll be back in a few hours-”

“No.”

You ceased your movement as a hand clasped around your wrist.

“Thank you, ladies, but that won’t be necessary.”

The Witcher smiled and sent away the two maidens with a dismissive wave of his free hand. 

He really must be drunk. You thought to yourself. His philandering-ass self did not just turn away those two girls.

"Are you out of your mind Witcher?" You scolded, glancing back and forth between him and the sulking chambermaids with confusion. "Those two are some of the finest looking girls for miles around."

"I've had better." The Witcher shrugged and packed his belongings.

"Oh right, sorceresses." With a moue of annoyance, you grabbed the room key, and made your way up the stairs.

"Anyway, what's the matter? Having trouble 'summoning Roach' tonight?" The Witcher paused as you shut the door and asked, but not before taking a long, hard glanced at his pants. "Mmhm." You nodded, noting the lack of budge where "Roach" was usually stabled.

"Fuck off." The Witcher rolled his eyes and removed his gloves.

"I can gather some herbs if you'd like." You offered, plopping onto the bed with only your boots and travel cloak removed. "Give me half an hour and I'll get a concoction ready. Or do you prefer pastes?"

"Are you mocking me?" 

"I would never." You threw the Witcher a look of indignation. "The lack of sexual potency is no laughing matter my dear fellow."

"What about Kellish flies?" You pondered. "Do these aphrodisiacs even work on Witchers? That's a genuine question by the way." You clarified as the Witcher scowled at your inquest. 

"Don't know." The Witcher shrugged as he continued to disrobe. "Never needed them."

"Really?" You pursed your lips in amusement. "How long can you last then? Without them."

"Why?" The Witcher frowned.

"For academic purposes." 

"I'm not your professor."

"Correct, you're merely a subject of my sudden interest."

With his tunic half undone, the Witcher stalked towards the bed. "And in what manner will you be conducting your research then?" He asked, towering over you.

You pressed your lips together and took a deliberate look at his crotch. "I see nothing worthy of my study." 

The Witcher looked away for a moment and scoffed.

"Ok." He said to himself, leaned forward and placed his hands onto the bed.

Alarmed, you slithered back as the Witcher advanced.

With your back braced against the headboard, you could only watch in horror as the Witcher crawled, like a tiger towards its prey, closer and closer until he was only inches from your face.

"I'll give you something to study." He growled into your ears. 

That sound, that voice; it was causing you to lose your mind, and not in a good way. 

A tingling sensation manifested across your chest as his lips brushed against your jawline; an entirely different sensation than the jolt of energy from before, this was something far worse. 

You swallowed hard as the Witcher pulled back and bestowed you with a tantalizing smirk. 

"Hmmm?" 

A shiver ran down your body as he boxed you in with his arms and whispered in your ears. 

The succubus half of your being lusted after him as you would anyone with his level of virility, which is rare to say the least. But that's precisely why you stayed far far away whenever the Witcher sought after sexual company. 

Such is the flaw of a succubus's inherent nature; an inability to resist men of his prowess in close proximity. Simply put, there the more he wants to fuck something, the more it made you want to fuck him. 

To your horror, you hands suddenly reached for his face of their own free will.

Once your subconscious takes over, there would be no way of stopping your body from forcing itself onto the Witcher. You could hurt him, you could even wind up killing him. 

The Witcher, probably having sensed your sudden shift in energy, back off promptly and eased away from the bed.

You breathed a sigh of relief as the compulsion to tackle him slowly dissipated from your body.

"Are you ok?" The Witcher asked with a look of concern as he made his way to a chair at the far end of the room.

"Is that you politely asking if I'm going to turn?" You questioned between bouts of slow and unsteadied breathing. "Or are you inquiring after my wellbeing."

"The second one." 

"I'm fine." 

But are you really? You asked yourself. Is he safe, trapped in this tiny room with you? Are you in control of your body now? Does the Witcher have knowledge of this? Will he consider you a danger once more if he ever finds out? 

"What happened?"

"A sudden bout of female hysteria." You tried to hid your apprehension behind humor but it failed miserably as your body continued to shook. "Get some rest." You panted. "I'll going out for a quick walk." You lied, fully intending to camping out in the woods tonight.

"Wait." The Witcher stood from his chair as you reached for your boots. "You seem really unwell."

"I'm fine." You repeated.

"Stay with me."

"I'm really not in the mood tonight." You shook your head, incensed by his rather insensitive request. "And don't you dare try to force m-" You stopped, not wanting to expose more of your past than you already had.

"No." The Witcher said with an air of calm. "I'm not asking for that." He explained.

"Then what?" You wondered, what else could he possibly want from you?

"I’d like to hear the rest of your story." 

The Witcher implored with unusual deference.

"About your travels, trainings, etcetera."

"Why?" 

"Curiosity, Kaia." The Witcher replied as took his seat by the corner. "That, and you make for decent company."


	6. Novigrad

The City of Novigrad came to life as the first rays sunlight silhouetted the statues stationed high up on the city walls. 

The sun had just barely crept over the horizon and already, the city was permeated with the aroma of freshly baked bread whilst local shopkeeps haggled with traveling merchants who struggled to barter in broken Novigradian.

The old cobblestone roads, sodden with muck from oxen carts and horse drawn carriages, weaved their way around the city.

Unlike the impoverished masses outside, the residents here gave little to no notice of the Witcher as they scurried past without a care. With a city full of traveling circus acts, elves, dwarves, magic users, and even the occasional fawn, a Witcher here is no longer a freak worthy of being gawp at. At most, they spared him a passing glance before rushing off to procure whatever they were out to procure. 

Their indifference was about the only decent attribute this city offered. To you, the damp quarters of a forlorn castle was much more preferred over this claustrophobic labyrinth.

The stench, for one, was awful. The overflowing sewers, the heaps of manure, and the piles of decaying food in the gutter; the lack of airflow made it even worse as the city reeked of a week-old Drowner’s corpse left to rot in a steaming sauna. 

Hell, even the pigsties out in the country had bundles of wild honeysuckle growing around it to help ward off the stench. The closest thing here is a whiff of perfume from the occasional passing strumpet.

“Ooof. Yeh blind there girl?”

You glared as a middle-aged woman, who had just slammed into your side, walked away without uttering an apology.

The Witcher, upon hearing the woman’s insult, glimpse curiously in your direction and lingered for a moment before resuming his walk ahead. 

Frankly, you would be curious too if someone with your level of keen perception failed to evade a slow-moving pedestrian.

“Watch it!”

You leaped out of the way as a mail carriage sped around the corner, appalled by the driver’s dismal excuse for a verbal warning as he made no other efforts to avoid a head-on collision.

Again, the Witcher turned and glanced behind, this time with a slight frown on his face.

Unlike the Witcher, who seemed accustomed to fine-tuning his senses to accommodate the environment, your hyper awareness was a rather permanent fixture. In any other instances, you would have been able to hear the carriage coming from a mile away, perhaps even discern the speed of its approach. But in this anarchic metropolis, the barrage of stimulus made it rather difficult to focus as it pulled your psyche in all directions.

_Splash_

You nearly hurled as a someone emptied a chamber pot out of a nearby second story window, the contents of which landed sloppily next to a makeshift food stall. The vendor, unaware, continued his sales as tiny, nit-sized clumps of human excrement peppered across his freshly baked pretzels. 

_Thump_

A cloaked individual slammed, rather deliberately, into your shoulder and made off with your wallet, all the while glancing suspiciously at the somnolent sentries nearby. You did not bother to give chase, as there was nothing of value carried inside anyway.

“Hey!”

The Witcher’s shout of warning alerted you to the ensemble of fast approaching Redanian guards that nearly trampled you en-route to relieving their tired brethren of their nightly duties.

“You can let go now.”

A gruff voice commanded as the last of the guards marched past. 

“S-sorry.” You stammered. The Witcher as was only meant to serve as a stabilizer as you made way for the passing guards; how is it that you’re clutching onto his arm like a toddler would a teddy-bear was beyond any justification you could think of. 

Embarrassed, you threw off the Witcher’s arm and took a step back but was instead shoved into him as the throngs of people resumed their activities. 

“Shit.” You winced as the silver studs on the Witcher’s cuffs brushed against the back of your hand.

The Witcher, upon seeing your reaction, dutifully loosened the cuffs and removed his gloves; he then held out a hand and gave you a quick nudge.

Does he expect you to take it? 

“Can’t have you stumbling around like a headless chicken.” The Witcher sighed as you stared at him with appalled silence.

Who does he think you are? A child? Some delicate damsel in distress? Had he forgotten you have slain a whole nest of griffins by yourself? That you had gone toe to toe with him at Braithwaite port, with only a dagger no less? Just who does he think he-?

“Move it.”

You lurched forward as the Witcher grabbed your hand and jerked you towards him with a sly look on his face.

“Stop acting like a petulant child, _Bruxa_.” The Witcher chided as dragged you through the crowd, all the while ignoring your grunts of protest.

"My name is Kaia."

"That's what I said, Bruxa."

"Pasty shyte, bossy bastard, poxy vagabond..."

“Shall I leave you here then?” Fed up with your incessant grumbles, the Witcher snapped and pulled you forward with a jerk of his arm.

You glared. 

Admittedly, now that you are stuck in the heart of the city, it was much easier to have him navigate instead; though you’d rather not disclose that.

“…No.”

“Good girl.”

“I’m not your horse.”

“I’m not riding you.”

“Would you like to?”

“Ye-”

The Witcher broke off. His face, obstructed by the hood of his travelling cloak, gave nothing away as you attempted to gauge his expression. Judging by the minor inflection in his delivery, the comment was probably made in jest; though you did detect a slight elevation to his pulse as you brushed a finger against his wrist.

“I shan’t deny you the pleasure then.” Though a joke, your response came out a lot more quieter than you had intended it. Where is this sudden reticence coming from? You wondered. 

The Witcher, however, carried on as if your reply failed to reach his ears.

* * *

The next two months passed without any incidents worth remarking. In fact, you two rarely saw one another except for a few monster-hunting excursions that were brought to you and the Witcher’s attention by the sparsely populated villages surrounding Novigrad.

Though, there was one incident noteworthy however, where the Witcher remarked on your smile, in the middle of battling a wraith no less. Who knew he thought of you as comely? 

Though, that’s hardly a compliment as you often fail to differentiate his _comely_ whores from the local crypt keepers.

In the meantime, with growing resentment toward magic users since King Radovid’s decree, an effort was underway by both the public and the Novigradian government to crack down non-human creatures lurking in the city. 

The Witcher maintained a low profile as he preoccupied himself with training, hunting, and tracking down his sorceress friend, Triss Merigold.

Why is he looking for her? Who knows. Though, if you must venture a guess, he’s just feeling lonely and is in need of her, _ahem_ , companionship. 

The more likely reason is he needed her to produce a portal that would teleport him to Cirilla. Though that would be a near impossibility as the isle is steeped in arcane energy and impenetrable by any magical means except perhaps by the most powerful of the magic users.

Is he even aware of that? You always wondered. Though, he’s is a big boy, he'll figure it out eventually without your help.

You, on the other hand, avoided the metropolis almost entirely as you sought out wealthy families in need of temporary governesses. Primarily because these rich folks lived far away from the polluted center city. 

And often, at the patron’s behest, you were offered generous living quarters on their property until they had found a permanent replacement. 

Moreover, since a governess was expected to exhibit a noble’s decorum, the compensation reflected just as nicely.

“Funny.”

You chuckled to yourself as the Viscount’s young daughter played hide and seek with her nanny. 

Didn’t the Witcher swear he would not permit you out of his sight until Cirilla was located? 

“Found you Na-na!”

You watched as the young girl cheered in triumph before sprinting away from her elderly playmate.

You had not heard any word from the Witcher for over a week now. Is this a show of trust? Or are you secretly being tailed by a network of spies he had hired through some dubious mob connections?

“What cha thinking about?” The precocious girl inquired as she skipped to your side and handed you a freshly plucked rose from her mother’s garden.

“A life so bereft of worries would not comprehend the peripatetic existence of …”

The child gave you a blank stare.

“It means I’m hankering for some trifles.” You smiled. “With loads of strawberry jam and ginger snap cookies.”

The girl gasped with delight and her eyes brightened.

“May I have a drizzle of honey on top?” She whispered. “Na-na won’t let me have any.”

“Of course.” You whispered back with a wink.

"Missus Pilfery." You called out to the nanny as she hobbled her way across the garden. “I’ll take it from here, if you please."

Surely, this elderly caretaker is dying for some much-needed rest after chasing around an energetic six-year-old all morning.

“You may have a spoonful if you’d like.” You leaned over and whispered into the young girl's ears. “Only if you promise to keep it a secret.”

The bright-eyed girl beamed and nodded eagerly as you took her hand and walked towards the gates.

“You girls are not headed towards the kitchen are yeh?” The nanny questioned, out of breath, after she has finally reached the top of the stairs, her hawklike eyes bored into your faces, scanning for signs of deceit. “Andreea isn’t allowed any sweets before supper.” She added.

“Of course not Missus Pilfery.” You smiled. The nanny must’ve eavesdropped. For a old maid in her 60’s, she’s sure got the hearing of a wild bunny. “I know better than to spoil Lady Andreea’s supper." You continued with a saccharine expression. "I merely intend to give her Ladyship a glimpse of the kitchen before her next drawing lesson. We will be making pencil sketchings of various desserts.” 

Andreea nodded obediently as you gave her hand a light squeezed.

“Oh.” The nanny bobbed her head. “Well... you girls have fun.”

Even after decades of experience dealing with children, the nanny still gave her trust away so easily. Would the Witcher would do the same? Perhaps it is about time you start planning your escape and get a head start on finding Cirilla.

* * *

_Knock knock knock_

You ignored the rapping and pulled the duvet over your head. 

It was your first night back in Dandelion’s since finishing your post at the Viscount's residence and already there's another debt collector at the door. 

Scarcely a day went by without someone hammering at the front door looking for the bard. Sometimes it’s a girl, her brother, her father, or all three, screaming their heads off about him being a whoremonger. Sometimes it’s a debt collector from the local gambling den. There was even a dwarf once who demanded for Dandelion’s head because the idiot had sullied his grandmother reputation in one of his more suggestive ballads. 

_Knock knock knoc-_

_Creeeak_

You perked up and propped yourself on an elbow as someone opened the door.

“What do you want?” The Witcher asked in his usual deep, baritone voice.

He’s home… You smiled.

“H-hello. Good e-evening.” Someone stuttered, and judging from the light timbre of his voice, its a man in his early twenties.

“I’m looking for Lady A-Ardelean” He continued, still stammering. An understandable reaction, in your opinion, when suddenly faced with a Witcher.

“There’s no person here by that name.” The Witcher answered, unaware of your alias.

“W-what about Margery? That is her given name. I was told she lived here. She worked as a governess at my household until last week.” The person persisted.

You pursed your lips, what the heck is the Viscount’s son doing here at this hour?

“The answer is still no.” The Witcher grumbled.

“She has silver hair, sapphire blue eyes, rosy cheeks, vermillion colored lips and...”

“Mhmmmm.”

The man trailed off as the Witcher mull over his description; this particular _mhmmmm_ sounded more a lot intimidating than his usual assortment of musing noises.

“What for?” The Witcher growled.

“I’d like to return this to Ms. Ardelean please, she left it at my estate.”

The rustling of clothes filled the silence as the young man handed the Witcher your forgotten garment.

“May I see her?” The young man inquired once more.

“She’s sleeping.” The Witcher answered curtly.

”Are you by chance.” The man hesitated for a moment. “Her father?”

The Witcher said nothing.

”I didn’t mean to offend-”

“Let me get this straight.” The Witcher interrupted, there was an obvious terseness to his voice. “You. The Earl of Munteanu, heir to Viscount Ioveanac’s estate, trekked all the way from Romanescu to Rosedóttir on foot, with no armed guards, at quarter past two in the morning, just to return a piece of lacy neckwear to a former governess?”

Confronted by his ruse, you could hear the Earl shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

“Now that you put it that way.” He chuckled nervously. “W-well, actually, that’s not all.” You heard a second rustling noise. “W-would you mind passing this along to Margery?”

A long pause ensued.

”No.”

“Plea-”

The crystal tumbler on your nightstand wobbled precariously as the Witcher slammed the door in the young Earl’s face. 

You chortled at the Witcher’s response and bolted from the bed, swathed yourself in your comforter and wrenched open the bedroom door.

“Did I hear Krampus making an early visit just now?” You asked, after finding the Witcher standing by the fireplace.

A few strands of hair fell over his eyes as the Witched lifted his head and gave you a look of annoyance. Without a word, he picked up a poker and jabbed it into the embers with far more force than necessary.

“So?” You prodded expectantly, seating yourself in the armchair across from him. “What delightful presents did the goat demon award me for my lovely deeds this year?” You joked.

The Witcher glanced up from the fire. “A dozen of Vizima’s cerulean roses.” His eyes hardened as your own lit up at the mention of flowers.

"Marius brought me roses?"

Not just any roses, but one of the rarest breeds on this continent.

"Marius?" With his gaze trained to the fire, the Witcher's questioned with a twinge of somberness in his expression. "You're on first name bases with the Earl?"

_Fwoop_

A flurry of ashes sputtered onto the mantle as the Witcher chucked a log into the fireplace. 

"Does that offend you?" You asked, perplexed by the odd demeaner that had befallen onto the Witcher. "I lived on his estate." You added, hoping it would justify your familiarity with the Earl and his family. "I saw him on the daily for over three weeks."

The Witcher said nothing as he leaned forward and rested his elbows atop his knees. 

"It only took three weeks?" He asked with a brisk tone in his voice.

"Actually, it only took three days." You snapped, vexed by his sudden, and unwarranted, caprice. "Has some misfortune befallen you, master Witcher? Is that why you're so crossed- What is the matter?" You frowned, at a complete loss, as the Witcher snarled at the mention of his moniker.

"You _are_ a Witcher, aren't cha?" You asked, baffled by his unfounded ire at being addressed by the rightful title of _Witcher_. "You've been subjecting me to the sobriquet of _Bruxa_ since we met, and I’ve never complain about it! And I'm not even a Bruxa!"

"I didn't know you preferred roses." 

Confused by abrupt shift in subject, you straightened your back and stared. 

The insistence at which he uttered the statement ran contradictory to the statement itself as he never concerned himself with your preference in aesthetics. 

"Wh-I-." You stammered. 

The Witcher, sat unmoved, urged you for a reply with a glance of his honey colored eyes.

"My preference is of no consequence." You frowned. "Unless you plan on making a purchase for me. Which is absurd.”

"Why absurd?"

"I know of your predilection for certain flowers." You answered. "Like you would ever waste money on anything but lilac and gooseberries."

Suddenly, in your periphery, a note was slipped in from beneath the front door. 

"I'll be back." You muttered, keeping your eyes trained on the mysterious item as you rose to your feet. 

With a gently tug, you teased note the loose from the doorframe. 

_To Lady Margery_ _Ardelean_

On the center of the plain, white envelope, someone had neatly inscribed, in perfect penmanship, your alias in gold ink.

Turning it over, you studied the crimson wax seal that bore the Earl’s insignia and carefully read the words that were scrawled beneath.

_From your humble servant, Marius Ioveanac_

“Hey!" You startled as the Witcher snatched the envelop from your hands and held it out of reach. "How the hell did you manage to sneak up on me like that?” 

”Persistent bastard.” The Witcher snarled through gritted teeth as he examined the envelope.

“Excuse me?” You questioned as the Witcher sulked his way back to the fireplace.

The tall, brooding man ignored your inquiry as he slammed his butt down onto the arm chair, causing it to scrape against the wooden floor as his weight shoved it back a couple inches.

What is he so bent out of shape about? You wondered.

The last time you had seen the Witcher so distraught was when an opportunistic psychic threatened to hex Roach into insanity lest she was paid a hefty sum. For which she was told to fuck off, of course. 

As a result, for the next week, the mare refused the Witcher rides, going as far as landing a kick on his belly when he tried to subdue her with Axii. 

Though, once it was discovered that you were the one responsible for Roach’s disobedience by supplementing her diet with hallucinogenic herbs, saying that the Witcher was furious was an understatement. He chased you for several miles with his sword, threatening all the while to cut your head off then and there. But it was worth it; it was a boring stretch of road and you were in desperate need of some entertainment.

You chuckled to yourself at the fond memory.

You watched as the Witcher raised a hand to his face and ran it through his ashen hair. The few locks that had strayed over his brows were brushed away and tucked neatly behind his ears. His eyes flickered over the writings on the envelop before it finally lingered at the wax seal.

The fire poker lay discarded by the mantle as the last burning log crumpled onto a bed of ashes below. 

Should the Earl have given the Witcher some chocolates and a teddy bear instead?

You giggled at the thought.

Perhaps he's jealous of the Earl’s affection for you, you thought. But where was this jealousy then when you seduced the cross-guard at the bridge for some forged passports? 

You watched as the Witcher sighed and traced a finger over the wax seal. 

“That’s _my_ letter.” You proclaimed from the darkness of the hallway. “Give it back.”

The Witcher, now slouched in the armchair, glanced in your direction as he tapped the edge of the envelope against his hand, expression a mixture of anger and sullenness. 

Unbelievable. You shook your head. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, The Butcher of Blaviken, is sulking over a love-letter by some Earl from Novigrad?

"Take it then." The Witcher held the letter into the air. The force of his grip warped its edges as he held it tightly between this fingers.

 _I'd say he's head-over heels in love._ The woman from the tavern; her words echoed in your ears as you recalled the conversation you with her and the dwarf.

Had you been ignoring the signs this entire time? You wondered to yourself. Are there any other instances that would support your theory? 

Perhaps the incident at the inn would count as one; the night where you nearly went crazy being seduced by the Witcher. For that particular incident, you'd been so preoccupied with making sense of your own reactions that you had dismissed the Witcher's flirtatious gestures as nothing more than a ruse.

Was it just a ruse? You wondered. 

What about the times he made inquires about your history? That of which you've been writing off as feigned civility.

Or his offer to guide your hand through the city, for which you dismissed as his impatience for your stumblings.

Perhaps you had been clueless all along, and wrong. Perhaps the Witcher does harbor feelings of affection for you _;_ you had just been failing to recognize it.

“Tell me, master Witcher.” You marched over to the fireplace and snatched the envelope from his hands. “Do you play Gwent?” You smiled and chucked the unopened envelope into the fire without bothering to view its contents.

Of course he plays. You smirked. You’ve caught him gambling away an entire week’s earnings before. What’s surprising is how he managed to remain oblivious to your awareness of this.

The Witcher, whose hands remained unmoved as if still holding the letter, transferred his puzzled gaze onto your face as he processed what he had just witnessed.

"The Earl would be heart-broken to know how you’ve so callously discarded his poetries of love." The Witcher frowned, though not out of acrimony. 

"Poetry? Please. The Earl lacks the competency to compose anything that’s worthy of reading, I doubt what’s burning is a literary masterpiece." You refuted as the letter went up in flames. "Anyhow, the truant's only good for horseracing." You chuckled. "And squandering his father's money. Ah, good old nepotism. It will be the death of our society."

A gradual smile stretched across on the Witcher's lips as you casually besmirched the Earl’s honor, reputation, and usefulness.

”He had no idea what an abacus was until I showed him.” You continued. 

The ease by which the Witcher's enmity vanished as you continued to asperse the young Earl confirmed your suspicion of the Witcher's jealousy.

An endearing response, admittedly. One of which you wouldn't mind seeing again.

"So, Gwent?" You inquired once more. “What do say you to a few rounds, hmm? Unless you’re afraid of losing, of course.” You taunted.

"Best three out of four?" The Witcher relented, though the eagerness in his eyes betrayed the deliberateness of his blasé demeaner.

“Splendid.”

Retrieving the box of Gwent cards sitting atop one of Dandelion’s bookshelves, you freed your arms from the blanket and tucked it around your chest.

“I don’t play for free.” The Witcher added.

“Ah yes. Men and their vices, I love it.”

You relished in his concession and indicated for him to sit with a playful pat upon the hearth.

“What do you wager?” He asked, sounding considerably brighter than before as you dealt him his cards.

"What do I wager?" You pondered. It must be something of value, for there's no fun in gambling without any risk. Your savings perhaps? No, too pedestrian. You dismissed. Your horse? Your dagger? Your sword? Your pendant?

A sharp jab of pain stopped you in your tracks as your heart tugged against your chest.

The pendant; Cirilla.

A sudden chill pervaded the room as a tsunami of doubt and trepidation crashed into your thoughts; all this time, you, in your naivety, have fallen victim to the Witcher's spurious affection.

Cirilla is his ward.

You reeled at the harsh reminder. 

He’s well aware of your hostility towards her. He would never jeopardize her safety, let alone place you above her. 

All those times he pleaded with you to reinvestigate Angsar's death, to reconsider your revenge; to forgive her. He's merely using your affection as a means to save his daughter; in hope that one day perhaps, the love you bear him would supersede your hatred of her.

Yes. Your lips trembled with anxiety as you unraveled this revelation further; that must've been the reason for his insistence on keeping you by his side, his acts of kindness towards you, a monster, and his flirtations behavior.

You forced a quick laugh as the deck of cards slipped out of your grip. 

"Slippery bastards." You muttered, trying to mask your nervousness behind a giggle. 

In your haste to collect them, you failed to notice the Witcher's hands as he reached forward to gathered a few the cards. 

A shock of electricity surged up your arm as your finger grazed the back of his hand.

Could he be capable of such cruelty? You asked yourself as you released the tension in your hands by balling them closed then stretching them open. 

"Something wrong? Kaia?” The Witcher asked as placed the neatly stack of cards before you. 

"Who?" You frowned. "Oh, nothing." You smiled.

Kaia, he called you Kaia.

Could he be so cruel as to weaponize someone's affection?

"Your wager?" The Witcher asked once more. The concerned in his eyes lingered as he lowered his gaze and gauged you with unease.

“Two-thousand and thirty crowns." Your _debt_ to the Witcher was the first thing you could think of. " That's my wager. Heads. You're up.” You called as you flipped a coin in the air. 

The Witcher hesitate.

"Come on, let go." You let out a nervous chuckle, trying to remain composed. "I'm not one to be patient." 

Whatever his intentions. 

You took a deep breath as the Witcher placed his first card.

Be it sincere or insincere. 

You forced a smile on your lips as to placate the Witcher's unease.

One thing's for sure. Nothing will get in the way of you killing Cirilla.

* * *

_Thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk_

“In the name of the King! Open the door!”

“Fuck the king.” You rolled your eyes and reclined deeper into the porcelain tub. It’s probably just someone in search of Dandelion again; they usually leave after half an hour of knocking.

You only awoke an hour ago, finding yourself lying on the hearth, securely tucked in layers of blankets as the fire smoldered in its grate. 

The Witcher was gone by then, and you’ve no idea where he went.

Frankly, you were surprised to found out you had fallen asleep at all. Perhaps you had just been tired out from over thinking your revelation while still having to focus on the card game.

“By the King's order's! Open the door!”

If Radovid only knew how many people diluted his claim to the throne with illegitimate use of his name, he’d surely run a deficit on nooses trying to hang those that blaspheme his title.

You leaned back and savored your hot bath; still mulling over last night's thoughts.

The steam from the water condensed into little ice crystals on the frosty window and softened the rays of evening sunlight as it bathed the room in a reddish-purple glow.

The wine uncorked with a soft pop as you took a swig from the bottle. 

"Don't let the Witcher get in your head."

You muttered and proceeded to gulp down the rest of the bottle.

Despite your best efforts to disregard your feelings for the Witcher, a part of your heart kept reeling you back as it remained stubborn and uncooperative. You couldn't help it; the man's a prince charming in disguise; he's loyal, considerate, witty, perceptive, stoic... why, you can fill a book with his positive attributes. 

He even tucked you in with extra blankets last night.

"Why of all people is _she_ your child of surprise!?" You placed a hand over your face and groaned. "Just disown her, dammit!"

_Thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk_

_BAM_

The clanging of metals reverberated throughout Dandelion’s home as broken pieces of the deadbolt bounced across the floor. 

You seethed as the sound of frantic footsteps reverberated throughout the house.

King or no King, the audacity of them to breach into your home with a damn battering ram? Someone's clearly spoiling for a fight. 

Perhaps it’s a good thing the Witcher isn’t here to intervene after all.

Your mouth stretched into an ominous grin as you remove your knife from its pomegranate sheath and wiped the blade clean. With the blade hidden beneath the duvet of floating blossoms in the tub, you waited patiently for the thugs.

“The front door.” You drawled as the first of the intruders kicked open the bathroom door. “Was carved out of mahogany. I do hope you intend on replacing it.”

“Wh-who are you?” The hoodlum stammered, frozen in place. 

“Is tha’ him!? Did yeh find him!? Where’s the fookin’ turd-.” A second man rushed in from behind and halted upon seeing you, naked, in your flower strewn bathwater.

“Bloody hell!” A third man, with broken teeth and a slack jaw, exclaimed as he shoved aside the others. “She’s…. ostentatious!”

“Uh…no.” A splash of water rippled against the basin wall as you raised an arm and wagged a finger in disapproval.

“Resplendent?” He attempted once more.

You considered it for a moment. “No.”

“S-splendiferous?”

“I believe the word your looking for is _the-fuck-is-that-cocksuckin-pansy-_.”

The fourth, ostensibly their leader, barged in the room with a kitchen cleaver in each of his hands and shouted.

“Salutations, gentlemen.” You greeted, taking care to hide the inscriptions on your forearm as you draped an arm atop the rim of the tub while the other grasped tightly onto the paring knife. “Do you mind? You’re letting the draft in.” You smiled as a small gust of wind bump the broken front door against its frame.

“Where is Dandelion?!” The leader barked, scanning over the room with his eyes.

A ripple of water sloshed over the brim as you pointed towards a vase of dried dandelion blossoms sitting atop the windowsill.

“Oh, you’re a funny one.” The burly man hissed, lowering himself until he's at eye level.

Sporting an ugly sneer across his lips, the man plunged his tip knife into the tub and swirling it around until the flowers clumped together and dispersed.

“What’s your name?” You asked, shutting down his smile with a flick of your bathwater onto his face.

“Quint.” He replied. “And I’ll take that, if you please.” He wrenched the paring knife from your hands and tossed it aside.

Placing tip of his cleaver on one of your thighs, Quint swept his eyes over your body as he glided the blade up your navel, then torso, before letting it rest against the base of your neck.

“I’ll ask again, where is the bard?”

“He’s not here.” You pursed your lips and feigned an apologetic smile while reaching beneath your thigh for your actual dagger having used the fruit knife as a decoy.

“But _you_ are here.” Quint leaned in closer and hissed onto your face, his breath reeked of tobacco and cheese.

“What do you want?” You asked, slipping your fingers around the hilt of your dagger ever so slowly as to evade his detection.

“One-thousand Redandian marks.”

“Seeking your mother's child support from the bard?”

A splash of water crashed onto the tiled floor you swiftly blocked the man’s attempt at a backhand with a slash of your dagger.

"Back off!" He barked as the other thugs drew their weapons and advanced.

“Not bad, lassy.” Quint snarled as he tried to stem the flow of blood from his hand. 

"I don't have one-thousand marks." You shrugged.

“But we have _him_.” He smirked and spat upon the pristine bathroom floor.

“Who?” You inquired lazily, playing with your dagger as you rolled your eyes at the ceiling.

“The mutant freak.”

“...”

“That albino sonnovabitch, Geralt the Witcher.”

“Where is he?” You demanded. 

The four hoodlums sniggered loudly as your poise gave away to sudden panic.

“Come with us and you’ll see.”

“You’re lying.” 

One of the goons stepped forward and produced the Witcher’s pendant from his pocket.

“Take a look.” He said as he tossed it over.

Catching the chain in midair, you hastily examined it in the fading sunlight.

"Fuck." You cursed, having verified its authenticity.

“Where is he?!” You bolted upright from the water and demanded once more.

“Like I said, come with us, and we’ll show you.” Quint mocked as he slapped a towel over your head. “We’ll be waiting downstairs lil-lady, and don’t forget the one-thousand marks.”


	7. Au contraire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those of you with finals this month, I toss a coin in thine direction and bid thee good luck!

“What is this place?”

You recoiled as the stench of smoke, beer and cheap perfume slapped you right across the face.

“Can’t you read?” The goon with the busted jaw snorted as he pointed toward the wooden signpost hanging right above your head. “ _Nibbana n’ Blessith’s Bed_.” He recited, producing a shower of spit with every - _b_ \- he enunciated.

"And the Witcher is in... here?"

You asked as a scantily clad she-elf ambled past the door, balancing a tray of cocktails atop of her flower-crowned head.

“Come on.” The goon's leader, Quint, groused as he kicked the door and urged you in with a shove against your back.

“What’s this?! What grimy stankin lass ‘ave you brought me this time eh?”

A ghastly looking woman with thin brows and scarlet rouge atop her wrinkly cheeks hollered as she stormed across the dimly lit establishment. 

“Close the damn door yeh idiots, you’ll let all the heat out!” She admonished, yanking you out of the way before slamming the door shut.

“Good, no one wants to catch a whiff of this miasmatic shithole.” You muttered.

“What did yeh say?” She snapped, shoving her face in front of yours. “Watch who yeh sassing yer churly bumpkin!” She warned, wagging a ring laden finger in your face.

“This the girl from Skellige? I’ve clients waitin’.” She asked the as she scanned you from head to toe with her overlined eyes. “Why did yeh let her come wearing this cheese-cloth eh?!” She exclaimed, pinching the collar of your thin tunic and flapping it back and forth.

“I know these animals like ter fuck naked in the snow out there on that god-forsaken island, but I’ll be dammed if yeh brought me another frostbitten broad!” The woman chided as she tugged at the buttons of your tunic.

“Back off.” You hissed and slapped her hand away as she attempted to examine your chest.

“Woo-wee! We’ve got a fighter ‘ere eh?” The madam jeered, not the least bit threatened by your warning.

“Oh, she's a fighter alright.”

Quint chimed with a glower as he held his bandaged hand in the air. “But she’s not for sale.”

“Then what did yeh bring her fer?”

“She’s here for the Witcher’s debt.”

“Her!?” The madam exclaimed, arms akimbo. “I asked for Dandelion! Does she look like one of those Mustached choirboys from Lergin county eh?”

“Mustached choirboys from Lergin county?” Bewildered, you laughed. 

“Close yer mouth girl, lest yeh want me ter stuff a horse cock in there.” The madam admonished, slapping your jaw shut.

“But she was the only one there ma’am!” One of the goons protested as she continued to berate them.

“Dimwits.” The madam spat at their feet. “How’s this lass gonna pay fer the Witcher’s debt eh?” She cried, pointing at your face. “Yeh got money girl? Coins? Don’t make me strip search yeh right here.” She badgered, redirecting the entirety of her ire onto you.

“Where is the Witcher?” You asked, ignoring her question.

“Who knows! The bastard’s hidin’ somewhere in here!” She cried.

“He’s not… being held hostage then?” You hesitated, how did they get their hands on his pendant then?

“Hostage? Heavns no! The bloody mutant has been bleedin’ me coffers dry for the last month! Drinkin' and gamblin’ fer days at a time! I’d giv’ my left tit to have him gone fer good but the bloody bastard keeps comin’ back!”

Gambling? Again?

“-scarin’ away my patrons-”

You quietly stuffed the 1000-mark banknote deeper into your pocket as the woman berated the Witcher with unrelenting fury.

“So are yeh going to pay or not?” She snapped.

“Of course.” You lied, bearing no real intention of paying off the Witcher’s debt. Hell, you're the one owed money after your winning streak of Gwent from last night!

“Well? Where my money?” She asked, tapping her velvet clad feet impatiently against the ground.

“They have it.” You gestured at one of the goons with unwavering confidence.

“You raggabrashing heffa!” Quint barked as he lunged for your throat. “You didn’t-”

“No fightin’ in my place of business!” 

With surprising agility, the madam grabbed a nearby bottle of booze and slammed it onto Quints already wounded hand.

“Girl, you a virgin?” She asked, brushing off the yowling man.

“Huh?”

“A virgin, girl. Have you been fucked before?”

“Never.” You lied out of curiosity.

“Hey hey hey! No!” The Quint suddenly barked and motioned for one of his men to pull you aside. “The agreement was for us to bring you the money. She’s not part of the deal!”

“Then where’s my money? You fuckin’ muck-spout!” The old woman scoffed. “What. You want ter fuck her ferst is that it?”

“So what if I want to fuck her? That’s my business!”

“Yeh work for _me!_ ”

“The fuckin’ bitch pulled a knife on me!”

“So what? Fuckin’ her is gonna do what? Give yeh a new hand? I just hurled a bottle at yer ass are yeh gunna fuck me too?”

The two squabbled away, just as you had hoped they would.

“Where’s the damn bastard?” You withdrew your attention from the argument and glanced around the room; the lounge, the gambling tables, the stage; not a sign of the grey haired Witcher. 

In the back corner of the bar, two Redanian guards, still in their uniforms, exchanged confiscated jewelry for some potions with a pair of sleazy looking thugs. In the next corner, a group of pregnant women pranced around the room with their breasts out, offering a drink of milk from their tits in exchange for few Redanian marks. The next table over, one of the elven girls spiked some power into a goblet and poured its contents down the throat of an unsuspecting patron. Before long, the man slumped forward and was dragged upstairs with a glazed look over his eyes. 

There’s an upstairs!

You observed as the elf hauled the half-conscious man up the narrow staircase that was cleverly camouflaged against its wooden background.

Closing your eyes, you tried to listen for some clues from above but could barely hear a sound; some quality flooring they’ve got in this establishment. 

Edging closer to the stairwell, you concentrated your senses and amplified every noise, every vibration that tricked down.

Shrill laughter, labored breathing, fake orgasms….

And slurping noises. Someone’s either having the best time of their life, or they’re chocking to death with sticky, wet dough stuck in their throat.

Moving on.

You adjusted your position slightly and homed on the next sound; someone is begging to be gagged and spanked…with a flail… on their balls.

Ouch.

Next door over, something large and unholy was wigging its way out of a person’s lower orifice, and no, not from the one you’d expect. You shuddered as the squelching noises were silenced by a loud groan and a thud.

Next.

In this room… there’s a woman…

You stalked closer.

…and she’s moaning. 

Straining your ears, you heard her noise grew louder, then fainter, and then stop. She then obediently obliged as a muffled voice ordered for her to lay back. Her moans of pleasure resumed as the love making recommenced.

His tempo was fast, faster than what an average person could manage, and sustained without ever faltering. 

The woman’s cries grew louder and louder as she gripped what sounded like the bedpoast and dragged her nails against it. 

She screamed; she was nearing her climax-

“Aye girl!” A boney finger snapped you out of your trance.

“What!?”

“What did I say about sass-”

“What?” You repeated, incensed by her interruption.

“I said watch yer tone-”

“How dare you throw knife at me you old hag?!” Quint interrupted as he stormed his way past the crowd. “I’m going to fucking kill you!” He shouted, ripping out the carving knife from his shoulders and flinging it at the madam. 

In the blink of a second, the place erupted a madhouse as the elvish bar-maidens pulled brass knuckles out of their flower crowns and proceeded to brawl with Quint's knife welding thugs. The two Redanian guards fled from the scene while the group of vagabonds at the gambling den slammed their chairs at the card dealers and fought over the coin lockbox.

Taking advantage of the commotion, you darted towards the stairwell and sprinted up to the second landing.

Tiptoeing from door to door, you blocked out the noises from down stairs and listened for the woman’s moaning.

"Here..."

You whispered in triumph as you finally located her at the very end of the corridor.

Keeping your breath steady, you stealthily maneuvered yourself before the entrance and pressed an ear against the cracks around hinges of the door. 

“Fuck me harder." She cried between bouts of moaning. "Fuck me harder Geralt!”

Geralt?!!

You stumbled backwards and nearly fell on your butt as you jerked your head away from the door.

“Oh, Geraaalt.”

The whimpering woman continued simper as you scrambled to get back on your feet.

No no no, you cannot have a repeat of what happened at the inn. You must leave, now!

A flap of loose floorboard squeaked loudly beneath your feet as you made a hasty retreat.

“Shit.” You halted your escape and cursed under your breath.

Did the Witcher hear you? Can he sense that you’re here? 

You reached for the wolf medallion around your neck and clutched it tightly in your hands. No, you're still in possession of his pendants. Also, judging by the unbroken thumping on the other side, the answer, you were certain, was a no.

“Geraaalt.” The woman cooed. “Hold on a second! Hehehe.” She tittered. “Let me have a drink.”

The bed groaned and creaked under the Witcher’s weight as he alleviated her pleasure for the time being.

“Would you like some?” The woman could be heard asking as she uncorked something and poured liquid into two containers.

“No.” The Witcher responded with a flat voice.

“Suit yourself Geralt.” She giggled and proceeded to gulp down both containers. The _glug glug_ sound of her swallowing her drink sounded disgusting. And that stupid inflection she kept adding to end of his name was rather irritating.

“Shall we? No, I want to be on top this time.” She begged as the two of them flopped onto the mattress.

You should go, you pleaded with yourself. Something awful will happen if you stay, you shouldn’t be this close to the Witcher while he's... 

"Go, go, go." You urged and pinched yourself on your thighs. But, despite every fiber of your being aching to tear away from the scene, your body refused to obey as your muscles seized up like they've been froze in ice.

You bit down hard and took in a deep inhale as the woman remarked on the size of the Witcher’s manhood from the other side. The bed rocked back and forth and slammed loudly against the wall as the woman rode her heart out.

“Fuck.”

You swallowed hard as the Witcher grunted in his deep husky voice and thrusted, making the woman climax... again.

It was too late… you pulled at your hair and crawled on your hands but with every inch you managed to claw away from the door, your body involuntarily pulled you right back to it. 

It began… tears welled in your eyes as the dreaded sensation creeped down your spine.

This is why you’d rather suffer alone, in the forest, at night, fighting an actual Bruxa, than to be within a mile radius of the Witcher whenever he kept female company; a side effect of your unfortunate pedigree. 

Even in your partial human form, the lustful temptations of a succubus are still deeply entrenched in your psyche. 

Just as men are unable to resist the charms of your kind, you are also unable to resist those same infatuations once they have ensnared your mind. This is especially true against Witchers, for their mutations granted them an exorbitant amount of virility, far surpassing that of any humans, mages, elves, and even dwarves; enough to seduce any succubus on this continent. 

Such is the nature of magic, there was always a give-and-take, for balance must exist. 

You braced your palms against the door as the Witcher heaved a deep grunt on the other side. You could hear the two of them locking lips as he shifted her to a different position. Her moans echoed in your ears as he thrusted hard against her hips, supplementing her labored breathing with his bouts of panting. 

A cry of pleasure spilled from the other side as the Witcher lifted her in the air and slammed her against the door. You pressed a cheek to the door on other side and indulged in the vibrations of their passionate lovemaking as every nerve in your body pulsated incongruence to his rhythm.

Are you reacting this way because of your succubus instincts? You wondered, or if it's because of your own desires for him. It must be the instincts, you told yourself, because there was no way you'd consciously allow yourself to fall for the Witcher knowing he'd never return it.

Taking another deep inhale, your lips quivered in anticipation as his scent seeped through the cracks around the doorframe. 

It was unlike anything you have ever encountered before. Not some musky odor of a human, nor the usual metallic tang of his blood-soaked armor. 

No. It was far more powerful, immaculate, potent… and arousing.

The woman cried out in pleasure as the Witcher's palm made contact with an unknown part of her body. The back of your upper thigh singed with delectation as you envisioned yourself in her place.

“Leave Kaia! LEAVE!” You cried in your head as your body trembled uncontrollably. What will you do once your subconscious takes hold? Will the Witcher consent to your urges? Will you force yourself upon him? What if he refuses? 

The Witcher was nearing his climax, you could sense it.

A loud bang knocked your head back as the woman landed an involuntary kick at the door.

The bed groaned once more as the Witcher ceased his lovemaking and tossed the woman onto the mattress. He was holding back; you just knew it, he had to, or else he might end up fucking the woman dead.

Splinters of wood chipped off the door as you sunk your nails into it in an attempt to stifle your own moaning.

You’re dying to experience full brunt of his fury and rage. You don’t care if she gets hurt, you need to feel him; all of him. You craved for his hold, for him to engulf you, to possess you.

“Geralt.”

His name escaped your lips in a whimper as the woman on the other side screamed it at the top of her lungs.

Waves of orgasm crashed over your body as the Witcher, with one final stroke, released himself into the woman in his entirety.

_CRASH_

The door, its fibers weakened by the strain of your hold, buckled against the weight of your body and shattered into tiny fragments as you fell over the threshold.

Oh no.

There he is; in the flesh before your eyes… you couldn't fight the urges any longer.

Sprinting into the room, you crawled across the bed, pushed aside the shrieking woman and shoved the Witcher against the wall and crushed your lips against his.

You needed to have a taste, a sample, a fix. 

The gnawing desire in your core pushed you to continue as you brushed a tongue against his soft buttery lips that tasted of sweet almonds and lavender honey… oh how you love almonds and lavender honey. 

Eager for more as you savored his lips, your hands explored his warm, chiseled body whist straddling his still pulsating manhood between your legs. Tracing your fingers over his chest, you marveled at the scars scattered across his body, which did nothing but add to his masculinity.

Disregarding the rapidly diminishing supply of air in your lungs, you wrapped your arms around his neck and deepened the kiss; you don’t care if you’re starved of oxygen, you didn’t want to stop, you wanted to continue, for an eternity. 

But alas, as vertigo threatened to unsteady your feet, you realized, you needed to breathe. 

With your hands braced against the Witcher’s chest, you pushed yourself off and broke the kiss.

No sooner did you part your lips from his did the realization of your actions donned on you hard. As if being awoken from a deep slumber by the dousing of a pail of icy cold water, the fog that obscured your awareness dissipated in a flash, leaving your stunned and mortified.

Yet, your desire was easily satisfied with just a mere kiss on the lips; does this mean your succubus half was not entirely to blame for your impetuous action? Because had it been, the Witcher would've been subjected to a lot more than just a kiss.

"I-I did not-” You sputtered. “I was just- they told me you were- I was just-” Your cheeks burned as you struggled to string together a coherent sentence. “I thought they were going to hurt you-”

You turned to face the door.

“The woman said- I-”

Your stuttering was cut short as the Witcher braced a hand on the nape of your neck and pulled you into his arms.

The warmth of his breath against your skin invoked a shiver that traveled from the top your spine down to the soles of your feet. With his other hand wounded tightly around your waist, the Witcher took a deep look into your eyes before pulling you back in for a kiss.

Relinquishing the reins of your soul to your growing concupiscence, you moaned into his mouth and deepened the kiss as he fervently explored your lips with a sweep of his tongue.

_THWACK_

You two shoved each other away as an axe embedded itself into the wall right where your heads once were.

“There’s the lil wench! And that cock suckin’ cunt!!”

Quint, now covered with fresh scars, barged into the room as his men followed suite from behind.

“Get ‘em!” Quint bellowed as at least twenty of his men stormed into the room. “I want ‘em alive!”

Shaking with the surplus of adrenaline from the interrupted kiss, you wrenched the axe from the wall and prepared to have some fun.

“I got this.”

The Witcher doubled over in pain as you, for the sake of his modesty, slapped a pillow onto his crotch with far more strength than you had intended.

“Gentle, Kaia.” Geralt bemoaned as he knelt behind the bed and nursed his privates.

By the time the Witcher had finished dressing, you had disarmed and knocked unconscious most of Quint’s posse. 

"Impressive." He remarked, looking around the room, littered with fallen goons.

"Lucky." You corrected. These were just random thugs from the streets, had they been trained fighters, you would've been one incapacitated.

Suddenly, an arrow flew past your head and landed beside the Witcher's neck. A warning shot.

“Put down yer weapons lest you want me ter shoot yeh head off!” The madam warned as she and her group of elves peeked around the corner with a crossbow in hand, aimed straight at your chest.

“Run off, Lolia.”

The cowering girl, who just not long ago enjoyed the best love-making session of her life, scampered from room as the madam ordered with a tilt of her head.

“You.” She pointed the tip of her arrow at the back of Quint’s head. “Out.” She instructed.

Quint, unwilling to take on a squad of elves and two expert fighters, slammed his cleaver into the mattress and glowered.

“You’re not seeing the last of me Witcher.” He sneered. “And you,” He growled through gritted as he directed you with a trembling finger. “Should’ve fucked that tight little asshole of yours when I had the chance, next time I’ll ram this knife so far up your cunt you’ll be begging for my cock as I fuck you to death-.”

Before he could finish, Geralt lunged forward, missed by the hail of oncoming arrows, and slammed Quint to the ground.

“Get off you fuckin-” A spray of blood and teeth peppered the ground as Geralt sunk his fist into the hoodlum’s mouth.

“Stop! Witcher!” Shouted the Madam as Geralt slugged even harder; even with the combined strength of four full grown elves, they still failed restrain him.

"Help 'em, girl! Don't just stand there!" The madam ordered as she gave you a harsh look. "Or else I'm callin' the guards!" She threatened.

Though you'd like to have seen the thug pummeled to death, but for the sake of the Witcher, you helped. 

* * *

“-little shit, yeh runs off everytime I try ter collect yer tab, don’t tell me yeh’ll pay be back in spring, I ain’t got enough patience until spring dammit! Now look what yeh two hav’ done! Scarin’ my customer’s off, frightened Lolia half ter death…”

You folded your arms and leaned against a pillar as you watched the madam rant furiously at the Witcher.

“I don’t know why the yeh bother wit _my_ girls when yeh’ve got _her_ back at home.” She jabbed a finger in your direction. “Is she hidin’ a cock down there or somethin’?” 

“The biggest I’ve ever had, nearly tore a second asshol-.”

“Shut up!”

You giggled into your hands as Geralt answered with a smoldering stare.

Fed up with the Witcher’s insouciant attitude as he adjusted his gloves and shrugged, the Madam glared in your direction and demanded. “What do you have ter say ‘bout this?” 

“My dearest madam.” You dropped your arms and stepped forward. “I agree, unequivocally, with your statements; he is indeed the most foul, loathsome, abhorrent, repugnant-”

The Witcher cleared his throat loudly with a scowl.

“-furtive little shit to have ever cursed this continent.” You concluded with a frown.

“But I, the benevolent, munificent, philanthropic, and gentle-”

The Witcher and a few of the elves snorted at your sarcastic proclamation.

“-soul shall bless your establishment with a charitable donation.”

You produced the 1000-mark note from your pocket and handed it to the Madam with a bow.

“This isn’t enough ter cover all of this!” She turned on the spot and gestured wildly at the mess.

“No. I have a better idea.” The madam shook her head as she stuffed the bank note into her corset.

“That comely noble lad, what’s his name again?” She asked around the room as she snapped her fingers in the air. “The one with the blue and gold doublet, mop of brown hair... Some Viscount’s heir-.”

“Viscount Ioveanac." One of the pregnant women from earlier interjected as she took a swig from her flask. "Handsome little poppet." She added with a wink, suddenly no longer pregnant as she tossed aside the pillow that was once expertly stuffed beneath her dress.

“That's the one!” The Madam affirmed with one final snap of her brittle fingers. “Came in here the other day askin’ if I had a girl with silver hair ‘n blue eyes, I laughed and told him I ain't never seen no girl wit no silver hair, let alone got one ready fer him ter fuck! He won’t even settle fer a wig! Says he’s willin’ ter pay ten-thousand marks fer a night, just fer a night! Can yeh believe it?!”

Geralt tensed as the Madam walked over and examined you.

“And here yeh are, waltzin’ up in here with yer silver hair and pretty blue eyes.” Her mouth contorted into an ugly smile. “I bet he’d be willin’ to double that offer if I scrub yeh off real nice and put yeh in some lacy-.”

The madam's words were muffled and she toppled backwards onto a turned table as Geralt slapped a piece of paper in her face.

“Goddamit yeh bastard! Yeh could’ve killed me just now- Oooooo.”

Her eyes widened with a gleam as she carefully read over its contents.

“Ten-thousand marks?" She gasped. "Yeh had money all along?!” 

“And this.” The Witcher produced a handful of coins from his pocket and tossed it at one of the elves, “Is for Lolia,” He instructed. “For her troubles.”

* * *

It was nearly midnight. The streets, once bursting with life, now sat dark and silent except for the obligatory presence of the stationed guards and a few homeless stragglers.

“Ten-thousand marks.” You mused. 

A shower of light burst forth a few buildings ahead as a worker swung open the tavern doors. Cherry folk music spilled into the streets as the guests piled in sloppily one after another, having already drunk their fill at a different bar from across the city.

“Graverobbing?” You suggested with a humorous smirk. 

“Au contraire.” The Witcher shook his head. “More in line with cradle-robbing.”

“Robbed some poor countess of her innocence?”

“Defended.” He corrected.

“That’s nearly five-thousand crowns, considering today's exchange rate.”

“I owe you no recompense.” The Witcher darted you a glance. “We never finished the last round of Gwent.”

“I had the winning card in my hand.”

“But you fell asleep.”

“And you went off whoring.”

The silence was deafening as you two walked the rest of the way home without speaking another word.

"Listen." You implored as the two of you drew near to Dandelion's residence.

The Witcher halted his steps and turned to face you.

“Listen I-”

Your eyes darted away from his amber orbs as it bore down on you with unbearable intensity.

"I lost control."

He said nothing as you considered your next few words.

“It won’t happen again." You returned his stare with a lamenting gaze. "I'm sorr-”

“No."

The Witcher interrupted as he pulled you forth and enveloped you in his arms. Just as your lips finally met once more, an obtrusive sound interrupted as a halo of flames materialized out of thin air.

The scintillating shine seared your eyes as it grew brighter and brighter against the darkness.

Shielding yourself with one hand, you instinctively reached for your blade with the other.

“Geralt?”

The Witcher released you from his embrace as a gentle voice chirped from within.

“Triss!”


	8. Enter, Jaskier!

“Triss!”

The portal faded quietly into the darkness and in its place stood a beautiful young woman dressed in a gown covered entirely in navy blue and gold filigree. 

“Geralt!” The woman cried out in glee as she sprinted towards the Witcher and launched herself into his embrace that of which you had occupied but a mere second ago.

“I’ve been looking for you for ages!” Triss smiled, her expression was a mixture of excitement, relief, and anxiety all at once. Her eyes, welling with tears, sparkled she glanced up at the Witcher. “There were rumors around the city about your arrival, but I had no idea of your exact whereabouts. I _knew_ I should’ve checked Dandelion’s place first.”

“I’ve been looking for you too Tr-”

The corner of your eyes twitched, and your hands reached down for your dagger as Triss interrupted Geralt's sentence with her lips. The joints of your fingers cracked under the strain of your grip as the sorceress swung her arms around the Witcher's neck and deepened their kiss.

A rude and lascivious behavior befitting of her kind; these cocksure magic users, unable to get through the day without manipulation and forcing their debauched behavior on others.

A onslaught of nonverbal tirades raced through your mind as the two continued their public display of affection, right before your eyes.

However, despite your initial distain toward the sorceress, your attention quickly shifted onto the Witcher who, though hesitant to return her kiss at first, did not release her from his arms as they relished in each other’s embrace. 

His sudden disregard for your presence stabbed like an icy dagger at your heart as the little hope you bore from Geralt's attention fizzled out in abject futility. Reminding yourself that your romance with the Witcher was nothing but a farce to begin with, you took a deep breath and removed your hand from the dagger. 

For the second time, an eye-piercing shine broke through the darkness as another portal appeared out of thin air from behind.

“Triss, have you found him ye- Geralt! There you are!”

A woman, with shoulder length blonde hair and eyes of emerald green, beamed as she caught the sight of the two lovebirds.

“Keira.” Triss broke the kiss and hastily released Geralt as she greeted the new arrival with a nod.

“There’s plenty of time for you two to _catch up_ after we’re done with Emperor Eigallad.” Keira crossed her arms and chastised as she threw the two a disapproving look. “Have you briefed him on what’s happening- wait, who is this?”

As if was inquiring a shopkeeper about an item on display, Keira waved in your direction with a casual flick of her wrist and darted you a glance that you were sure, for whatever reason, was a look of disgust.

Having borrowed a rather scandalous dress from one of the working ladies at the brothel, since your own was soiled with Quint’s blood, you surmised that the two pea-brained sorceresses must have mistaken you as a streetwalker who had nearly wormed her way into their precious Geralt’s bedchamber for the night.

“She is-”

“Doesn’t matter, we need to go.” Triss interrupted Geralt’s explanation with a tug on his shoulders and, as if you were a pile of dog muck, threw you a look of equal abhorrence. “Come on, pack your things, we’ll explain everything once we’re there.”

“Where?” Geralt asked.

“We need your help.” Keira chimed in as she reopened her portal. 

“We don’t have much time.” Triss urged, pulling Geralt towards Kiera as she noticed his reluctance.

“Time for what?” The Witcher questioned once more, now hesitant to follow as he glanced back and forth between the two sorceresses who were determined to dunk him in the portal.

Fed up with the Witcher’s sudden helplessness as he allowed himself to be dragged around like a ragged doll, you bolted towards them and tore the Witcher’s arm from their hold.

“And who the hell are you?” Triss snapped, darting you and the Witcher a look of disbelief. “Geralt?”

“She is-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Triss interrupted again before Geralt could explain and shoved at your arm. “He’ll pay you for your services later.” She dismissed you with a glare. Two bloody welts appeared on your hand as Triss dragged the tip of her talon like nails across your skin in an attempt to wrestle Geralt’s arm back. 

“Come on! We have to go, _now_.” Keira pleaded as you remained steadfast with your hold, unwilling to give in to their attempted kidnapping scheme.

“What about Cirilla?”

“How do you know about Ciri?” Triss threw you a nasty glance as you demanded of Geralt who, at your inquiry, jerked his arm from Triss’s grip.

“Dammit Geralt, what have you told her?” Triss rounded on the unsuspecting Witcher as she took his arm back in her hands. “Stop drinking so much around these loose women. That mouth of yours will end up getting you killed one day.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Whatever. Let’s go!”

“Is patience a lost virtue amongst you magic users?” You snapped as Geralt was interrupted for the third time by the two sorceresses. “Or are you two so desperate to be unique that you reject the basic manners of human civility?”

“We-what?”

For once, Keira and Triss were at a loss for retorts as they contemplated the weight of your words. Despite their obvious use of portals moments ago, the revelation of being identified as magic users seemed to have been an unexpected shock. But what is more pressing, as was clearly written on their faces, was their outrage at being so brazenly slighted by a common prostitute.

To your surprise, however, Keira and Triss gave each other a knowing glance but otherwise gave you no acknowledgement as they returned their attention to Geralt who glanced around awkwardly at the three women being the unwitting object of their dispute.

"Don't make me hurt you!" "I dare you to try!" "Fine!"

“Stop it! All of you!”

You stumbled backwards as Geralt pushed the three of you away with Aard, the blast of air nearly knocking the sorceresses onto their behinds.

“I’ve been investigating Ciri’s disappearance too!” Triss declared before you or Geralt could get a word in. “I was going to tell you everything once we were at the safety of-.”

You rolled your eyes as Triss threw you a look of suspicion before finishing her sentence. She then whispered the rest in Geralt's ears as if you were not privileged to their super secret hideout. “A-and I found her location too! I think I can reach her!” 

Geralt’s eyes widened as Triss proclaimed with a smile, of which you were sure was false confidence.

“But with the disbanding of the lodge.” She continued. “It’s been exceedingly difficult to execute that kind of magic properly, but if you help us with this task!” Triss held a hand to Geralt's face as she force him to face her. “It will definitely expedite the process. Just helps us first, please!” 

She has no idea what she’s talking about, you thought to yourself. She’s merely using Cirilla as a bargaining chip to get him to do whatever it was they wanted.

“Let’s go!” Keira urged with a panicky wave, the halo around her portal sputtering as it struggled to remain open.

“Do you really think she knows how to break the magical barrier around the isle?” You growled upon noting the Witcher’s weakened resolve at Triss's insistence. “Are you always this gullible?”

“Just who the hell is this, Geralt?” Triss barked in an uncharacteristically scratchy voice. “How does she know about all of this?”

The Witcher remained silent as he turned his head in your direction, his expression undiscernible as the light from portal obstructed his face beneath its shadow.

“Who I am is none of your business, you red-headed hussy.” You snapped. “Geralt, if you leave, then I’m going to-” Your stopped; you had no idea what you were going to do. Though you have often contemplated the idea of leaving him behind, but up until this point, the act of actually parting of ways had never really crossed your mind as you’d always assumed the pair of you would find Cirilla together; even if one, or the both of you, must die by each other’s hands at the end of the journey.

“Guards!”

Your thoughts were interrupted as Keira alerted to something behind you.

Taking the opportunity of your momentary distraction as your eyes instinctively moved towards the direction of Keira’s warning, the two sorceresses pincered in on the Witcher and forced him into the portal, with Triss tugging him backwards whilst Keira threw her portal forward to receive them.

“Dammit!” You cursed, sprinting as fast as you could towards them as the portal shrunk at a rapid pace.

“Wait-” Geralt’s parting words were unceremoniously silenced as the portal imploded on itself and sealed them away.

Incensed by your own stupidity at being deceived by such a juvenile trick, you scolded yourself about your utter incompetence and stormed towards Dandelion's residence. 

To say you were infuriated by this turn of events would be an understatement. Not only were you robbed of your moment of intimacy with the Witcher, you also felt abandoned by him as he, in your opinion, put up no resistance at their urging to leave. Even without the considerations of romantic involvements, why was he still so eager to trust the hollow promises of his past flings over the months of dedication you had shown him?

“Good riddance.” Clouded by a veil of resentment, you hissed under your breath as you kicked open the front door, leaving a similar indent beside where the battering ram had struck earlier this evening. 

Deciding it was time to do what you should’ve done from the start, you ignored the intensifying ache in your chest and focused on readying yourself to leave. Swallowing the bitter resentment that threatened to overwhelm your senses, your told yourself your little tryst with the Witcher was over as you slammed the door to your bedroom wide open.

“Like hell I’m going to wait for you at Braithwaite harbor.” You reneged your promise to Geralt as you stuffed various belongings into a bag. 

Besides, if Triss was telling the truth, it is even more crucial for you to get a head start right now, seeing that there are no guarantees, hell, zero chances even, that the Witcher would return and take you along; it would be stupid of him to retrieve the intended murderer of the very ward he’s desperately trying to protect.

The sudden scrape of a chair from the living room startled you to your senses.

“Who’s there?!” You demanded, grabbing the nearest object within arms reach.

“Oh I beseech you; fair maiden of the night, bestow me a glance of your immoral sight, how my hands quiver to cusp those bountiful peaks, allow me the pleasure to hear thine yonder speak- Hey hey hey!! Assaults with deadly objects are _NOT_ allowed on this premises!”

A flash of royal blue dashed across the room as you instinctively hurled whatever it was in your hand at the unknown assailant.

“ _My-Word_!” Cowering behind an overturned chair, a man, with a feathered cap atop his perfectly coiffed hair and a handsome, boyish face, peeked over the edges as he darted a glance at the book you had just lodged into his stairwell.

“That bastard sure likes them feisty!” He wolf-whistled into the air and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “N-not you, sweetheart." He quickly retracted upon seeing your scowl. "You are… the...the… most refined and sophisticated gentle-creature I've ever laid eyes upon.” 

“Oh…” Your shoulders relaxed as the man gave you a small and nervous wave from behind his chair. “Sorry.” You sighed, shaking off your anger from earlier as you have no desire to harm your unwitting landlord. “You must be Dandelion.”

“Shut the fuck- I mean-shh-shhh…. My darling, shhh.” The man placed a finger of his lips and shook his head so vehemently that his feathered hat frisbeed off his head. “I’m Jaskier.” He declared, moving his hands before him as if he trying to dampen the sound of his voice through the movement. “Dandelion doesn’t exist.”

“Okay…?” You frowned at his insistence; Jaskier is just Dandelion in a different language. if he’s so eager to conceal his identity, shouldn’t he go with something more discrete? “Jaskier.” You amended.

“At your service.” The bard stood from behind the chair and with a flourish of his arm and returned your greeting with a bow.

“No, wait-” He stopped, tilting his head up and eyed the ceiling as if he suddenly remembered something.

“Actually, _you_ are at _my_ service.” He corrected as his crossed his legs over the chair and hopped on over with steps so bouncy that it reminded you of a wild bunny. “My sources have informed me.” He cupped his chin with a hand and tucked the other behind his back. “That my old pal Geralt of Rivia have been squatting at my residence for months, with a lady friend of his.”

“Has he now.” You pursed your lips and crossed your arms, more concerned about this ‘source’ of his than whatever _services_ he had intended to levy on you.

“No big deal, for _Geralt._ I mean, he _has_ saved my life before, though only on a very _few_ occasions mind you.” Jaskier clarified. “He's often he one that needs saving from … well, actually, he did throw me in that wolf den as bait one time…”

You raised an eyebrow as the bard seamlessly transitioned on a tangent.

“… well, heh, it _was_ my fault that we lost our dinner that night. But! Still! It did _not_ warrant that kind of punishment from him- oh- right, what you owe me.”

Jaskier promptly ceased his anecdotal blathering as you stared at him with a baffled expression. “Anyways, _Geralt_ can live here for free, but _you_ on the other hand.” The bard held out his palm and wiggled his fingers in anticipation. “You owe me some coins, honeycakes.”

“I have no idea who this _Geralt_ is.” You shrugged.

“Well if you're not his lady friend then who _are_ you?” Jasiker retorted, his hands remained outstretched. 

“I’m just your local, friendly, respectable _fille de joie_.”

“Tsk tsk, such lies. I know the face of every strumpet in this city and I don’t recall seeing yours.” The bard chuckled as he waged a finger at your alibi. “And let’s suppose you are just some random _fille de joie,_ then why are you rummaging through my house? Hmm?”

“Because I admire your work and, wait, why the fuck am I playing into this?" You whispered the last part to yourself as to remain out of his earshot.

“Really?” Though his posture remained unyielding, Jaskier’s eyes betrayed his stern facade his they widened with anticipation. “Prove it.” 

“ _And with such ethereal features, akin to that of a silven fae_.” You obliged and raised a hand in the air in spite of yourself, and clutched the other to your chest in mocking serenade. “ _I’m spellbound with love, for the semblance of your visage would’ve never ceased to plague every waking moment of my every day_.”

“Ballads of the Lost Crusade, verse four hundred and eighty-three, that’s one of my oldest works!!” The hems of Jaskiers tasseled sleeves flittered in the air as he applauded with delight. “Splendid!! Oh, you’ve no idea how happy you just made me. None of Geralt’s other _fille de joies_ cared for my literature, those uncultured pox-fritters always wrote it off as a fool’s twaddle, but you, an obvious enlightened scholar, is most definitely the-”

Suddenly reminded of the Witcher’s other ‘women’ from Jaskier’s ramblings. You interrupted his paddle with a wave of your hand being slightly appalled by his lack of concern over his friend’s safety. “Didn’t you hear all that commotion outside?” You questioned, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the front door. “Did you know this friend of yours was just hauled off by two sorceresses?”

“Oh that? Pfff, Geralt does it all the time.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and dismissed you back with a wave of his hand. “He'll run off with them for days at a time without telling me and then comeback all bruised and battered from their _activities_.”

The lightheartedness of his delivery did not brighten your mood as the bard emphasized the word _activities_ with quotation marks from his fingers.

“And sweaty too.” Jaskier added with a shudder. “And hungry. You know what? Now that I think about it, I wonder if that's what he's into." Jaskier mused.

"Into what?" You asked, unable to hold back your own curiosity.

"Being treated like a farm animal of sorts." Jaskier concluded with a serious look on his face. "Ugh, except those sorceresses never bothered with feeding him or washing him after all of _that...farm work_." He groaned. "Oh! And guess who gets tasked feeing him and bathing him? Me! It's like I'm his mother, maid, jester-Oh mercy! Oh no no no.”

Jaskier panicked and clasped his hand around your wrist as the sound of running footsteps and flashes of torchlight rushed past the living room window.

“How about this. How about this.” Jaskier tightened his grip as he pleaded upon your silence. “Pay me half now, and I’ll allow you a few days to gather the rest, hm?” The quiver in his voice did little to strengthen his attempt in negotiation.

No longer intrigued by the babbling bard as you’re eager to leave before being dragged into his drama, you narrowed your eyes and shook your head. Ignoring the man’s desperate pleas, you threw him off and went to gather the rest of your belongings.

“W-wait wait wait.” The bard insisted as he ran past and barred you from exiting the room. “How about you pay me a quarter huh?” He begged, his voice cracking you brushed past him with ease. “I’ll pay you back, double.” He vowed as grabbed you by the shoulders.

You glared.

“Triple! Look, if you don’t help me, I’m a dead man! I was counting on Geralt being here but you saw how those wenches dragged him off and now there’s no one here to save me from-Fuck fuck fuck!” With eyes as wide as the protective charms that dangled from his ceiling, the bard quickly cleared his throat, slick back his hair, and hastily straightened the hems of his doublet.

“Gentleman, ha-ha-ha.” He beamed a nervous smile and hid behind you as a group of debt collectors emerged from the darkness of the hallway. “W-where are the Redanian guards?” He stammered with a tense giggle.

“What guards?” One of the men piped up as he stepped into the living room.

“Oh, pff, w-well with such immaculate headgear, and the regal regalia, a-a-and the royal aura you exude, I thought perhaps I was being graced by the presence of his majesty’s personal guar-”

The frayed edges of the debt collector’s tattered sleeves flapped in the air as he silenced Jaskier’s blabber with a fist on the table. “Shut yer trap.” He spat. “Time to pay up yeh floosy dandy.”

“D-Dandy?” Jaskier, holding your shoulders once more, maneuvered you before him like a human shield whist he slowly backed away from the mob. “There’s no _Dandy_ here!” He declared. “Do _you_ know of a Dandy that lives here?” He tiled his head and ask you with a look of feigned ignorance. “Nope, no sire.” He then turned his attention back onto the thugs as you left his question unanswered. “No Dandy here, there’s no one by the name of Dandy-lion here…ah fuck.”

“You idiot.” You threw an arm back and elbowed him in the ribs.

“I fucked up didn't I?” Lamenting over his blunder, Jaskier slammed his forehead against the back of your shoulder blades as he cursed under his breath. "Oh, _mother fortuna_!" He suddenly cried out. "Why have thou forsaken me?"

Undeterred by the bizarre spectacle before him, the debt collect stepped forward and gestured for his men to follow.

“Oh, h-hey.” Jaskier suddenly perked up as he tapped eagerly at your arms. “Do that thing you did with the book.” The bard urged with a shoved against your back as the men, with spiked bats and rusty knives in hand, slowly encircled around you two.

“Gimme a book then.” You teased and held out your palm.

“How do you expect me to find a-” Jaskier panicked as he scoured the floor around him for throwable objects. “Dammit, I can’t find-, ok, how about this, I won’t charge you rent if you keep me- oh shit!" Practically squeaking as the men raised their weapons over their heads, Jaskier made one last ditch effort to bargain for his life as he closed his eyes and clung tightly onto your back. "-Alive!” 

“Well, you can’t charge me rent either if you’re dead.”

Glancing to your side, you sniggered as Jaskier’s face fell.

“Good point...”

“As long as you know.”

In an instant, you unsheathed your dagger and kicked Jaskier to the ground as one of the men raised an axe above his head and swung it in your direction. But before you could counter, a sudden shockwave of air, accompanied by a loud deafening boom, knocked everyone onto the ground as a portal, different from the ones before, appeared in the center of the room, the black flames that circled the portal searing the floor beneath as they rippled from the portal itself.

“You!”

Jumping to your feet, you sprinted forward, dagger at the ready as Triss stepped out of the hovering ring. However, despite executing a timely dodge, you failed to evade the a second blast of air as the sorceress, with an incantation and a wave of her arm, threw a spell in your direction and slammed you against the wall.

“What are you doing back here?” You shouted through gritted teeth as you picked yourself up from the ground and chased her into the living-room. “Where’s the Witcher!?”

Triss did not answer as she sped past and headed straight towards Geralt’s bedroom on the second landing.

“T-Triss?? H-help!”

You halted your steps as Jaskier’s voice called out from behind. 

Triss, on the other hand, barely spared him any mind as she glanced back for but only a split second before rolling her eyes and continuing her trek up the stairs.

Hearing the sorceress rummage through his closet, you tore your attention away from the bard and resumed your chase up the staircase.

“Dammit.” You cursed as a yelp of pain echoed from behind. 

Your heart pounded against your chest as the sound of Jaskier’s howls of pain held you in place despite every fiber of your being aching to chase down the sorceress and bless her with a good beating.

Suddenly, the metallic rasp and the ringing of an unsheathed sword had you racing down the stairs to pull the bard to safety as a burly man slammed a claymore down onto wooden floorboards. In an instant, the blade was embedded deep where the bard once cowered, casting a steely shadow onto the hearth before it.

Just then, you locked eyes with Triss as she emerged from the landing with an armful of the Witcher’s effects, her eyes remained cold as she descended the stairs in a hurry.

Facing the dilemma once more as you contemplated between chasing after the sorceress or protecting the bard, the decision was made for you rather quickly as you were forced to fend off the overwhelming number of men indiscriminately swinging their weapons at the defenseless Jaskier. Worse, unlike Quint and his unskilled possie, these men are not common street riffraff, but experienced fighters who handled their weapons with ease. 

“Triss?” Jaskier attempted one final plea as the sorceress parted the crowd with a spell and scurries towards the front door. But, just as before, she ignored his cries for help in earnest and summoned a portal as soon as she exited the premises. With one last glance in your direction, Triss entered the ring without a word and the portal vanished in an instant.

A blow connected with your chest during your moment of distraction, causing you to double over in pain as it knocked every bit of air from your lungs. Barely able to catch your breath, a second hand wrapped around your neck as you were body-slammed onto the ground. A spray of scarlet painted the walls as you slashed the hand around your throat with your dagger and thrashed wildly against its hold.

“Halt!”

The chaos around the room fell into a hushed silence as a voice ordered from the doorway. Throwing off your attacker, you pulled yourself on your feet just as a woman, with crimson robes and a face marred by scars, stepped over the threshold. She then removed her helmet and unhurriedly tucked it under one of her heavily plated arms. 

“What’s all this rucks?”

The woman asked, strolling around with her hands behind her back as she surveyed the upturned living room. 

From the emblem on her armor and her authoritarian demeanor, you surmised she must be a high-ranking officer of the Redanian patrol force. Your suspicion was proven correct as torchlights flickering through the windowpanes whist a hoard of guards surrounded the building.

“Disturbance of peace will not be tolerated under my jurisdiction.”

The whip in the woman’s leather gloved hands, though clean, was frayed at the edges, alluding to the frequency of their use. Without waiting for anyone to speak, woman held up a hand to maintain the silence as the clicking of her heels stopped abruptly at the sight of a singed marking on the flooring. Kicking aside the debris that littered around the ground, the woman, with one arm resting atop her knee, knelt down as she examined the ripple-like etching that were left by Triss’s portal.

“Which one of you here is in league with the sorceress?”

Her voice, though slow, was as dark and as intimidating as her hawklike gaze.

Though everyone present had witnessed Triss’s theatrical entrance with their very own eyes, none spoke up as the mere association with magic was enough to warrant a lengthy sentence.

“Hmm?” At everyone’s unwavering silence, the woman resumed her stroll as she bore down the room with her gaze.

“An anonymous tip was delivered to us this evening regarding fugitives that are being harbored in this residence.” She tapped the tip of her boot at the singed edges on the floor as she produced a partially folded note from her inner pocket. “Anyone recognize this?” 

Her inquest was once again met with silence.

“No one?” The woman prodded.

“Fine, take them all in for questioning!” The woman barked with a look of annoyance as she stomped her way back towards the exit.

“I-it’s her!”

You glared as someone raised a shaky finger in your direction. 

“I saw her chasing after the mage!” “Y-yeah! It’s her!” “I saw her use magic!” “She’s in league with a Witcher too!”

At once, under the threat of being arrested, the crowd, as if they had practiced it before hand, designated you as the scapegoat, _en masse_.

“Oh?” With a look of smug satisfaction, the woman gestured for her men to stay back as she slowly made her way in your direction. “A Witcher too, you say?”

“I was merely doing my civic duty, your Excellence.” You inclined your head and gave a light bow as the woman stepped before you. “I don’t know anything about a Witcher, I was just trying to incapacitate the sorceress, that’s all.”

“So you must be the author in question then?” The woman raised the note to your face and taunted with a flick of her fingers. “That, or you know the person who wrote this. I mean, why else would a little girl like you chase after a sorceress?” She mocked as she flashed you a venomous smile.

Examining the note up-close as the woman dangled it before your face, something fishy suddenly caught your eyes.

 _‘Those bitches!’_ You seethed.

The note was clearly written with magic, not ink! It was impossible for any ink to not bleed on that quality of paper and yet, there wasn’t a single smudge in sight. Also, there was a slight glitteriness to its color, which is highly indicative of magic’s presence. Besides, judging by the sloppy _penmanship_ , it was written in a rush. So who else could it be but- 

“So?” The smell of old leather and gunpowder pervaded your nostrils as the woman leaned in until she was inches from your face. “Did you write it? Hmm? Tell me who wrote it.”

You were stuck, answering 'no' to both questions would be too obvious of a lie; but saying 'yes' to either would mean guilty by association.

Suddenly, a pain shot up your leg as the woman, without warning, dug the tip of her nails into your thigh. With a swift punch to her jaw, you knocked the woman backwards but not before her knife-like nails had broken through your skin and sunken into your flesh.

Wisps of smoke rose from her silver studded fingertips as the woman howled with laughter.

“How did you know?” You seethed, watching your blood vaporize from her nails.

The woman said nothing but rather unfolded the last section of the note and held it up for you to see. To your horror, the last few sentences of the writing detailed your description and the fact that you were of inhuman origins.

“That fire-crotch of a sorceress was right.” The woman sneered, tapping a still smoldering fingernail at the letter. “I can’t wait to drag you before the public and flay you myself tomorrow morning, you fucking succubus-vampire abomination.”

“Did he...?” Your heart dropped to your stomach; was it Geralt? "How could he?" Your lips quivered at thought of him betraying your identity. It had to have been him, how else would the sorceresses know? Was he's so coldhearted as to denounce your friendship within only an hour of leaving? 

The woman unfurled her whip as she ordered her guards to draw their bows. 

Seeing there's no other way out as the house was covered with guards from roof to basement, you held back the urge to cry out in frustration as you quietly rolled up your sleeves.

“Jaskier.” With one last glance at the cowering bard, you called out to him as you ripped the bandages from your wrists. “Get out of here.” You ordered. The familiar sensation of pain and nausea crashed over your senses as you recited the incantations on your arms.

"I want this bitch alive!" The woman screamed as she cracked her whip in the air.

“Run!” You shouted one final warning to the bard as your consciousness gave in to the darkness.

* * *

The gurgling noises and the groans of the the dying men around your feet harmonized beautifully as you allowed your last victim to claw fruitlessly at your hands. Her once silver studded nails were rendered to nothing more than miniature meat sticks as you had, earlier, mercilessly ripped them from her fingertips. 

Deciding you've had enough fun, with one final crunch, the woman fell silent and laid limp as you severed her windpipe with a quick bite to her neck before draining her of her life source.

Relishing in the carnage, you wiped her blood from your lips as your wings retreated into your shoulders. Though the stinging of your wounds become unbearably painful as your body regressed back to that of a human's, you felt that it was all well worth it. Having seen this woman publicly torture and flog to death children whose crimes consisted of thieving an apple or not making way fast enough for the traveling guardsmen, this bloodmeal, unlike the one Jorge had provided, was as guilt-free as they came.

Screams of horror pierced through the night as the residents of the area were awoken by the commotion of your massacre. 

You must leave now, you cautioned yourself; for a few of them had started to approach with shovels at the ready while others ran to find more guards.

Mustering whatever strength that was left in your body, you hauled yourself from the ground and ran inside the house.

Salvaging a few sprigs of painkilling herbs from the medicine cabinet, you hastily stuffed it into your mouth as you bolted towards your bedroom.

“Thank you.”

Your hands hovered over your sword as a timid voice called out from behind _._

“I thought I told you to run!” You cried out in frustration as Jaskier peeked into the room.

“B-but you saved my life.” The bard explained with a stammer. “I-I can’t just leave you behind! I mean, you saved me of your own volition too! You know how many people out there are dying to kill me right now? Someone even placed a 20,000-crown reward on my head...oh, I shouldn’t told you that, should I?” Jaskier shrunk behind the door and winced. “Did I just sign my death warrant?”

“Move.” You ordered, shoving him aside as you shouldered your sword and bags.

“I’d really like to pay you back!” The unrelenting bard offered as you climbed out of a back window. “I’m really good at taking care of the sick and mentally feeble.” He added, chasing after you out of the window, unwitting adding fuel to the fire by calling you an invalid. “L-look at the state of you, I can stop the bleeding and wrap you up real nice like one of those Zerrikanian mummies and-”

“You don’t owe me anything.” You interrupted as you climbed over a fence.

“Or! We can stick together like a pair of pals and escape this hellhole of a city." Jaskier continued as he followed and tumbled over the fence. "Actually, you know, I've been told my voice is as sweet as the Princess Balla's favorite nightingale, I can send you off to sleep every night with your favorite songs and lullabies accompanied by the gentle strumming of my lute-"

“Go away.”

“But you saved me.” Jaskier insisted, tailing you like a lost and desperate toddler as you navigated through a maze of darkened alleyways.

“I didn’t save you.” You answered. “I was saving myself.”

“True… but-” 

"Hush." Suddenly, you grabbed Jasiker by the collar and threw yourselves behind a planter as a troop of Redanian guards raced past, sprinting towards the direction of your bloodbath.

“In the process of saving yourself.” The bard continued in a whisper as the two of you knelt in waiting. “You also saved _me_.”

“So?”

“So, that makes us best friends now.” He gestured back and forth between the two of you as his eyes lit up in expectation.

“You’re a harder sale than Geralt was.” Jaskier sighed as you remained unmoved by his declaration of friendship. “Ok, whatever, I’m going to die anyways if I stay in this city.” Jaskier shrugged. “So you might as well let me stick around until I find another place to settle.”

“ _I_ might as well let you stick around?” You retorted.

“Uh, yes!" Jaskier threw you a look of offence as you challenged his words. "Before tonight, I just owed some coins to the local gambling den, at most, a few months in the dungeons, but _now_ thanks to you.” He darted a glance at the guards. “I’m an accomplice to a mass murderer!”

“I told you to run, did I!?" You held back the urge to punt Jaskier with your feet as he grinned smugly at your indignance. "It's not my fault you were stupid enough to come back." 

"You can't fault someone for wanting to express their gratitude." He snapped back.

"So you’re willing to stick around a mass murderer because of gratitude?” Despite your unwillingness to humor him any further, you had to admit, the bard had somehow piqued your interest. “You saw what I’m capable of, right?”

“And?” Jasiker crossed his arms in defiance.

“Aren’t you afraid?” You raised an eyebrow at his lackadaisical response.

“Why should I be?” He snorted. “Geralt looks way scarier than you whenever he insists on downing one of those _Witcher_ potions.” 

“Nevermind.” You sighed at his naivety and resumed watching the passing guards.

“Besides, you’re an excellent repellent- I mean, replacement for the Witcher.” Jaskier beamed as he crawled up beside you. “For one, you’re much easier on the eyes.” He leaned against you arm and stared at you with his puppy like eyes. “Much, much, much, much, muc-”

“Ok! I got it!” You snapped in a hushed voice.

“Two, you seem like the type who likes to bathe every once in a while.” He continued. “And three, if any monsters decide to make a meal out of me, you’ll be able to prote-”

“But I AM a monster, don’t you understand?” You cried out in frustration.

“Shhhh!!!!” 

Jasiker dove forward and slapped a hand over your mouth as he hastily straightened himself in an upright kneeing position. With an arm roped around your neck, he shoved your head out of sight and, accidentally, you hoped, planted your face onto his crotch.

“Shut up shut up _shut up_.” He pinned you down with his hands as he barred your attempt to struggle free.

“Oi! Wot the devil are yeh doin ‘ere?!”

You ceased moving as a voice boomed from the streets.

“Nothing, my good sir.”

You could practically see the saccharine expression Jasiker’s face as he answered with a lighthearted chuckle.

“I just couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck in my hovel on a night as beautiful as this, so I decided to take a stroll-”

“It’s the middle’ove winter.”

Jasiker shuffled nervously upon being interrupted. He then, out of what you assumed to be a reflex reaction, cradled your head between his thighs as the man could be heard approaching the planter.

“U-uh, mister guardsman, I mean- sir, do you mind? I’m busy baking a loaf right now.” Jaskier cautioned as the man stepper closer.

“Wot?” The footsteps halted.

“I'm um, a little preoccupied with setting loose the Kraken at this moment?”

“What Kraken?” The guard snapped. “ _Krakens_ aren't real!”

"You dense turd-pickle." Jasiker sighed under his breath. “I’m currently…squeezing the cheese?”

You gave him a light punch on the thigh as he mushed your face even deeper between his legs in an attempt to gesture something at the clueless guard.

“Come on, they’re common euphemisms!” Jaskier complained against the guard’s silence.

Even more silence.

“Oh for the love of-.” Jasiker griped with exasperation. “I’m churning the butter? Laying a brick? Busting a rope? Chopping the log?”

He then reached down and scooped a handful of wet dirt in his hands.

“Is that…”

“Yes! My excrement!”

You held back your laughter as, _plop plop,_ clumps of dirt fell beside your ear from Jaskier's hand.

“Wot the fu-?” The guard retched as Jaskier brandished his ‘turtles’ in the air. “Why didn yeh just say yeh was takin’ a shyte!?”

“Why would I ever taint my lips with such vulgarity-”

“Alrigh’ alrigh’!” The guard interrupted as Jaskier reached down and scoop up more of his ‘excrements’. “Finish yer shyte n’ get the fuck on hom'.” The guard backed away as he retched again. “Fuckin’ lunatics!”

Finally released from his privates as the last of the guards disappeared around the corner, you grabbed Jaskier by the collar and slammed him against the planter.

“Do that again.” You threatened, though secretly holding back the urge to reel with laughter at the absurdity that was his 'excrement' exchange with the guard. “And I’ll stuff those _turtles_ down your throat.”

“Uh…”

“What?” You hissed.

“I-is it considered a mortal sin to be mildly aroused in the presence of someone who had just threatened you with coprophagia?” Jaskier asked as his eyes darted around your face. “Because, forgive my insolence, but I'm really stiffing a peak right now, and yet, to be frank, I have no desire to be force fed my own feces.”

Covering your mouth with both hands, you muffled your laughter as Jaskier grunted a few disjointed chortles at your fits of silent giggling.

“That’s the weirdest compliment I think I've ever received.” You wiped the tears from your eyes as you peeked over the planter. "The last time I heard such a thing was when he said my smile was comely-" You caught yourself and muffled the last of your sentence with a cough.

"Who said what?" Jaskier asked.

"Nothing." You answered simply and check to see if the coast was clear.

“Well there’s a lot more where that came from.” Jaskier scurried around planters as you motioned for him to follow.

“So can I tag along?” He asked eagerly as you two resumed your escape from the city.

“Sure, why not.” You relinquished.

“Wait, do you know where you’re going?”

“We’re going to pay a late night visit to Marius Ioveanac.”

“Marius Iveanac? The Earl of Munteanu!?”

“Actually, I take that back, _I_ am going to make a visit to the Earl. You can go hide somewhere else." You shrugged. 

"Why are we visiting _him_? Do you _want_ to be flayed in public? Do you know what the Iovaenacs are known for-"

"Because he can provide us a safe passage out of the city.” You interrupted.

“And how are you going to convince him of that?!” Jaskier jogged ahead and turned around. He demanded with disbelief as he he trekked backwards down the street.

“Because apparently I'm his top contender in terms of, hmmm, how did you put it?" You pretended to muse for a moment. "Ah, that's right, _stiffening his peak_.” You smirked and brushed Jaskier aside as he nearly collided with you upon hearing your response.

“Wh-”

“And don’t tell the Witcher about this!” You halted your steps and cautioned with a finger in his face. “Well it's no like I'll see him again after this..." You trailed off into your own thought. "But still! Or else I’ll stuff your every orifice with _turtles_.” A look of genuine fear flashed across Jaskier’s large, bluish-grey eyes as he swallowed audibly at your threat; for this, unlike the last threat, bore no playfulness in your tone. “Both real and metaphorical turtles.”

"Why does it matter if Geralt knows about thi-"

"Don't ask!"

Jaskier recoiled as you slapped a hand atop his nest of soft brown locks.

“Anyways, go hide." You instructed as you released him and scouted around for unoccupied buildings to break into. "I’ll need some time to rest and clean up before I see Marius. Meet me at Oxenfurt Gate at dawn after tomorrow.” 

“A-and if you don't show?” Jaskier stammered as you climbed onto a second story balcony and picked a locked window.

“Well then, my new pal, you’re shit out of luck.”

With that, you left Jaskier to his own accord as you ducked inside what appeared to be the unoccupied home of a wealthy silk merchant.


	9. Devilwood Blossoms

Under the Earl’s protection, you and Jaskier were safely smuggled out of Novigrad as soon as the city gates were opened at the first light of dawn. Unlike the slumbering city behind, the outskirts of the Novigrad were already teeming with life as peasants plowed their fields and merchants made way for their morning deliveries. Disguised as a pair of varlets accompanying the Earl for a morning hunt, you and Jaskier were largely ignored by the throngs of adoring women as they clamored over each other to bid the handsome young Earl good morning.

Thinking back, the women’s flirtations were much preferred over the barrage of insults you were forced to endure whilst traveling as the Witcher’s partner; even though, deep down, you’d gladly endure it all again if it meant that you would have him by your side.

“ _Au chante, mademoiselle._ ” Jaskier, ever the thespian, blew a kiss to a pair of swooning milkmaids, the warmth of his breath bloomed in the chilly morning air like a cloud of tobacco smoke.

“Quiet.”

You cautioned the bard with a swift kick to his feet; his was risking far too much attention with his blatant coquetry.

Jaskier threw open his cloak with a dramatic flourish of his hand and raised a disapproving finger in your direction.

“A gentle tap on the arm will do, thank you.” He groused with playful smile on his lips, utterly undisciplined unlike his the Witcher compatriot. 

As such, you reasoned, Jaskier's response had earned himself a second kick, to the shin this time.

“Ouch!”

At the sound of the bard's yelping, the Earl shifted awkwardly atop his saddle and, with a slow turn of his head, glanced at the two of you behind. “Margery…” He mumbled.

Racing up beside him, you, as discretely as possible, grabbed a hold of his hand and slid the cuff of his sleeves up his arm.

“ _Sese officio imperio obsequendum_.” Tracing a diagram on his wrist, you recited a spell under your breath and waited nervously as it gradually took effect.

Having climbed the balcony of Marius's bedchamber last night wearing nothing but cloak made of velvet and some lacy negligee underneath, to say the Earl was obliged to do your bidding was an understatement as he, at the prospect of having you at his disposal, practically gave a marriage proposal at the sight of your arrival. 

However, with considerations for Geralt aside, you decided against giving him a taste of your cherry pie as his pathetic cajoling reminded you vividly of that _farm animal_ reference Jaskier had alluded of the Witcher's treatment by the sorceress.

As an alternative, you subdued the Earl with a simple mind-controlling spell that had him hand over a sizable chunk of money, and forge the travel documents necessary for you and Jaskier to leave. Clearly, however, despite having mastered the basics of magic from Mage Ansgar, you were by no means are an expert yet at these sorts of enchantments.

“Phew.”

You and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief as Marius stiffened his back and resumed his trance like greeting with the public.

“Don’t break my concentration.” You cautioned, silently reciting an iteration of the spell every so often to maintain its potency. “Keep your philandering to a minimum until we’re done.”

“Aye aye.” Leaving an imprint stamped onto his corduroy tunic, Jaskier slapped a hand to his heart. “I shall cease to entice the ladies with my lecherous gaze.” With his other hand, Jaskier covered his eyes. 

You chuckled to yourself as Jaskier suddenly reminded you of that day where you falsely accused the Witcher of being a lecherous husband; the indignant look upon his face whist being scolded for neglecting his spousal duties; the tinge of redness on his cheeks when you proposed a kiss in favor of legal reparations...

“I’d say, that’s a wonderful rendition of Yennifer.” You shook off your thoughts as Jaskier suddenly whispered. “But then that’d be an insult to that masterpiece.” You swallowed a giggle as he pointed to a tattered scarecrow with a mop full of moldy hair wearing a lazily stitched rubbish sack for clothes. 

“How dare you speak ill of your husband’s favorite?” You teased.

“Oh please.” Jaskier answered with a soured expression. “Just because Geralt likes to milk the cow, doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the cheese.”

The two of you shared a chuckle at the sorceress’s expense and followed closely as Marius led the way deep into the woods.

* * *

It was midday by the time the three of you emerged on the other side of the Novigradian Forest, nearing its border with Redania. The Earl, having been released from your spell, was immediately placed under another as you sent him on his merry way home.

Jaskier, enthused, rubbed his hands together in anticipation as the Earl’s silhouette disappeared behind the tree line.

“Where to next?” He asked. “I’m in need of new writing material; are we to slay a dragon?” The bard played-pretend as he unsheathed an invisible sword from its holster.

“Steal a few dragon eggs? Rescue a maiden from a tower guarded by a nest of dragons?” Jaskier continued with the eagerness of an impatient child inquiring after his favorite circus performance.

“Olinghaer Harbor.” 

“How exhilarating.” Jaskier's once radiance expression on fell as he slouched and groused with a sarcastic pout. “To be fishing for cockles and shelling for…shells.” He huffed.

 _‘Or commandeering a ship.’_ You rolled your eyes at his mockery.

Except for the few that had already been scouted by you and the Witcher, a commercialized port like Braidwaithe Harbor had but few sailors keen on taking passengers across the Xespian sea as most of its vessels were intended for less precarious purposes like fishing and shrimping. Olinghaer Harbor, on the other hand, a famed trading post between the continent and the island of Skellige, would surely play host to a seaworthy ship for hire with a crew of seasoned seamen eager for some adventure.

“You’re welcome to leave.” You shrugged, having no intentions of indulge the bard with your true motives. 

To no one’s surprise, Jaskier protested with a snort as he steered his horse along and followed. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” He clicked of his tongue then pursed his lips.

“Fine, then let’s suppose I intend to capture a Vodyanoy at Olinghaer Harbor and will be using you as bait.” You challenged. “Will you still follow me then?”

“If that’s the case then let it be known that Jaskier the Brave, a savior of humanity, perished in his battle against an army of horrid sea creatures that-.”

"Ok, ok!" You snapped. "You made your point." Nimble with his wit and true to his dedication, the bard stood ready to embrace whatever came ahead, no matter how mundane or perilous its prospects may be. Though, you'd rather have some peace and quiet as you grieved over the Witcher’s absence. 

“Permit me a question.”

You darted Jaskier a skeptical glance as he asked, uncharacteristically stern without a hint of his usual effervescence. “Margery, correct?” 

“Hm?” You responded, withholding your unease at his sudden shift in demeanor.

“Who are you to Geralt?” Judging by the tone of his voice and his lack of animateness, you could tell Jaskier was being dead serious. “And why do you have his pendant?”

Suddenly aware of its presence, you instinctively raised a hand to your chest as the metallic emblem, in sync to the horse’s trotting, bouncing atop your corset. Having expended the majority your attention to more pressing matters at hand, you had long forgotten that the pendant was still in your possession. 

Without thinking, you clutched the wolf’s head in your hand as you thought of the penalties the Witcher must have suffered in its absence.

“None of your business.” You snapped, hoping your overt reluctance would scare him off. To your relief, Jaskier pried no further as he acknowledged you with a respectful nod. 

First it was Geralt, aloof and stoic; you’d sooner expect a piece of kelp covered driftwood to starting speaking before he’d ever initiate a conversation. But this joker here… You groaned as Jaskier returned to his usual cheery self, humming that abomination of a song that will have the Witcher drowning in a sea of dirty, copper coins for the rest of eternity.

The smell of freshly fallen snow filled your lungs as you tilted your head back and drew in a deep breath.

Were you this annoying? You sighed as Jaskier recited a limerick in commemoration of this new adventure and snapped in sync with its syllabic meters.

Did you go too overboard with your silly pranks? You wondered, recalling the times you’d butted heads with the Witcher. 

Surely not to this extent, you hoped. Because, aside from the shenanigans, you and Geralt also engaged in many meaningful conversations that, although brief, often ended in silent introspections that reassured another’s insecurities. That aside, you were also at ease to divulge in more sensitive topics as his lack of judgement brought you a sense of trust and security.

At other times, the two of you would ride for days without speaking. To an uninformed observer, the silence is indicative of your detested for one another, but unbeknownst to them, in truth, the two of you took immense comfort in each other’s existence. 

A knot formed at the pit of your stomach as you sighed; you’ve missed him so much.

“Jaskier. Why did you insist on coming?” You asked, compelled to hear his response as, ostensibly, you are an unhinged creature with an clear penchant for violence. And, your burgeoning romance notwithstanding, it was the Witcher’s child of surprise that had you bounded to the him in the beginning, so what the hell was Jaskier’s reason for his insistence?

Your mind wandered off as the bard contemplate your question. 

Perhaps you’ve misjudged him, you thought, perhaps Jaskier is sincere in garnering your friendship. It was his perseverance that had won over the Witcher after all, perhaps he is trying the same tactic with you.

After a few moment, the bard, with a satisfactory smile on his lips, answered your question.

“Because.”

To maintain your balance, you hooked a leg around the stir-up as Jaskier draped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in for a side hug.

“For a vampire-succubus mutt, you, surprisingly, possess a rare and exquisite beauty.”

“ _Surprisingly_?” You locked onto Jaskier’s eyes with a glare as you frowned at his delineation.

“I like you.” Jaskier admitted as he gave you a playful poke on the cheek. “But pity, knowing that your heart will never truly belong to me.”

The bard had you rolling your eyes as he faked a bout of sniffles and dabbed at his eyes as if drying a flood of fictitious tears.

“But most importantly.” He continued, putting an end to his histrionics. “You remind me a lot of Geralt.”

Flustered by his comparison, a flush of heat radiated from your chest throughout your body as Jaskier’s words validated your unspoken bond with the Witcher.

“OooOOooo so you like ‘em hairy, huh.” Despite your best efforts to evade his prying eyes, Jaskier teased with knowing look as he locked your head securely in his arms. “Ahhh, the blushing visage of a maiden in love. Ha! I knew that old man had a thing for you feisty gals!”

“You-” Your cheeks stung with embarrassment as Jaskier smirked at your indignance. 

“Oh, the stories I can spin out of this one, just imagine the headlines; the Woes of a Demonic Goddess and Her Witcher Lover’s Shattered Dreams!” A flock of birds took off into the distance as Jaskier barked to an imaginary crowd. “…. no no, that’s won’t do, that’s way too cheesy to put to my name.” 

An idea crossed your mind as you decided Jaskier must pay for his mockery. Pulling yourself together as the bard mull over his words, you contemplated on the best way to dish out his punishment. 

“Of all of comparisons you could’ve made.” You growled, shoving Jaskier aside. “You decide to liken me to that of an old, sourly, grisly, crotchety, horny, _farm animal_ of a Witcher?”

Jaskier startled, eyes widening with fear as you threw a leg over your saddle and curled up like a feline predator stalking her prey. Baring the sharp ends of your canines, you taunted Jaskier with a mischievous sneer as you coiled back like a cobra, ready to strike.

Before he could escape, a plume of white powder exploded into the air as you leaped off your horse and pounced on to Jaskier, tackling him into a pile of soft, feather-like like snow. 

Pinning him between your thighs, you held the bard in place as he squirmed beneath you like a frightened baby mongoose. 

“So, I remind you of the Witcher huh?” You teased, slipping a hand beneath the collar of his shirt and slowly tracing it up the side of his neck. Gliding your nails ever so gently across his soft, peachy skin, you didn't stop until you’ve reached the center of his pulsating jugular.

“See if I still remind you of him after this.” Purring into his ear, you savored Jaskier’s discomfort as his body stiffened and he begin to hyperventilate. Without warning, you grabbed ahold of his head and forcibly turned it aside, mashing a part of his face into the snow.

Having borne witness to you sucking a human dry, the bard panicked, rightfully so, as you sunk your teeth into the exposed flesh of his neck. Jaskier’s reaction was nothing short of comical as he screamed and thrashed wildly at the little nibble you gave on his throat. 

Clumps of ice flew into the air as Jaskier braced his feet against the ground and pushed himself away, soiling his new boots as he scraped the heel of his shoes into the dirt underneath.

“Bad girl!” Jaskier, having finally managed to escape from your hold, rubbed at his neck as he checked for signs for bleeding. “Oh fuck, oh no, oh no, I’m going to turn into a vampire now aren’t I? Oh shit, will I turn into a succubus too?! Is my cock going fall off!?”

"I didn't even break skin!" You defended at his unfounded suspicions. But before you realized it, Jaskier had ducked behind a fallen tree stump and flung a snowball in your direction; though the strength of his throw was worthy of praise, his lack of accuracy had it miss its intended target by a rather sizable distance.

War had been declared. You bent over and gathered a heaping handful of ammunition.

“No more bitin-” Jaskier choked as a giant snowball pancaked onto his face. The horses trotted and whined nervously as the two of you engaged in an impromptu snowball fight around them. 

“Margery doesn’t suit you.” Jaskier critiqued between fits of laughter. “Too austere, too ascetic.” The bard shook off the flecks of snow from his hair and extended a hand for truce.

For the longest time, you couldn't understand how their friendship flourished, that is between the bard and the Witcher; with the former a carefree optimist, and the latter a reserved introvert. Yet, in their own ways, they manage to inspire confidence and happiness in those around them, you included. Perhaps together, the two of them served to fulfill what the other is lacking, as how you had felt with Geralt.

“I concur.” You sniggered at the irony of your alias as you helped Jaskier climb onto his saddle.

“Buttercup!” An eureka; the bard proclaimed proudly as he clasped his hands together in triumph. “I shall dub thee Buttercup!”

“Oh for the love of- Please, no, I beg of you, don’t call me a fucking flowe-”

“From hence forth!” The bard interrupted. “You shall be known as Buttercup!” He declared, like that of a courtly announcer, cementing your new moniker with a stamp of his imaginary staff.

“How about a story from your travels?” You implored, wanting no more of this _Buttercup_ nonsense.

“Ladies first, Buttercup.” Jaskier countered. “Give me something good, and I’ll tell you about the time I slathered chamomile oil on Geralt’s taut, little bottom.”

“Ugh, you got me there.” Enticed by his anecdote, you surrendered. "It must’ve taken at least a whole jar to do the job.”

"With a butt his size? Two and a half jars to be precise."

You laughed. While omitting details of your vendetta against Cirilla, the two of you bantered and bartered for stories as you made your way towards Olinghaer Harbor.

* * *

“Jaskier?” 

You called out to the bard as you parted the drapes and looked out the window.

“Yes, Buttercup?” Seated in warmth and comfort of a roadside tavern, the bard, salivating at his buffet of food, answered without removing his eyes from the feast laid out before him. Though, who could blame him? With wild game a scarcity in the winter and practically nothing to forage, this was Jaskier’s first meal in days that wasn’t comprised of hard-tac biscuits with lumps of salted dry meat.

“Are you seeing this?”

The road, once blanketed beneath layers of snow was now a shade of brown and yellow as the ice melted from the heavy traffic. 

“What is happening?” Jaskier finally joined in on the spectating after having stuffed his mouth of brioche, roast chicken, and an assortment of cheese. 

A procession of wagons, loaded with wicker baskets and shabby furnishings, trailed behind throngs of haggard looking peasants at least a mile deep as they dredged their way towards the city.

"Com' in! Com' in!" A cold draft blew into the tavern as the owner ushered in a glum family of five. "Warm yeh'selves up by the fire." He offered the panhandlers a table by the furnace before plying them with free nourishments. 

The grandfather, gaunt and hunchbacked, offered his sincerest gratitude as his four malnourished grandchildren tucked into bowls of porridge piled high with eggs and bacon. Their novel appearance drew in a crowd as inquisitive patrons badgered the elderly patriarch with questions.

“Let ‘em be!” The tavern owner chided, waving an impatient hand at the noisy spectators who paid him no attention. “So, where are yeh from?” Unable to contain his own curiosity, the tavern owner asked outloud.

“We ar’ frem the village ‘ov Karg.” You and Jaskier listened as the grandfather answered between fits of coughing and hacking. “In Maldic.”

You tensed; the realm of Maldic is under the rule of Emperor Eigallad, a name that was mentioned by Triss and Keira during their tug of war with you for Geralt that night.

“What happen’d there?” The owner continued. “That had yeh travelin’ all the way here?”

“A war broke out 'n the capit'al.” The grandfather explains, taking a sip of tea to sooth the rasp in his throat.

“What war?” Someone chimed in from the bar.

“Hav’ yeh not heard?” With a look of disbelief, the grandfather expounded upon the news. “The mages attempt’d a coup teh supplant Emperor Eigallad.”

The crowed gave a collective gasp. Anxious whispers filled the room as patrons discussed whether the war would extend into Redanian territory.

You and Jaskier exchanged worried glances at the unfavorable development; this must be why Geralt was dragged off by the sorceresses.

“When the fightin’ cam’ teh our village, we were still asleep...” With a heavy sigh on his lips, the elderly patriarch shook his head. “We barely made it out live, if it wasn’t fer-”

“The Witcha!” After having picked his bowl clean, one of his grandchildren piped up as she glanced up at her grandfather. “It ‘as a Witcha who sav’ed us ferm our burnin’ hut wasn’t it pops?!”

“Aye, Nola, a Witcha.” The grandfather smiled with a pat upon her head as he pushed his uneaten bowl porridge before her. “Eat up.”

A loud scraping of chairs cut across the room as you and Jaskier bolted from your seats.

“What did he look like?” You, barely able to suppress the panic in your voice, questioned as you and Jaskier pushed through the crowd.

“He…” The grandfather paused as he gauged you with apprehension, likely caught off guard by this sudden interrogation.

“'e had blood all over ‘is shirt." It was the same girl who had spoke up before. "'e had dis color’d hair.” She pointed at the whisper of white hair atop her grandfather’s head. “’n a big-ol scar over 'ere.” She then jabbed a finger to her forehead and traced it down her left eye. 

“What happened to him?” Jaskier, unlike you, gave no pretense to his anxiousness as he rounded on the table of five. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“’E got dragg’d off by one of ‘em soldiers aft’r an arrow hit ‘im right ‘ere.” The eldest of the children answered as he pointed a finger beneath his ribcage. 

“H-He got dragged off?” Despite the mounting anxiety in your head, you laid a gentle hand on Jaskier’s shoulder as he shook at their revelation.

“Aye. Usually the soldiers be beheadin’ ‘em on the spot.” The grandfather answered with a solemn shake of his head. “Lest they be dragg’d off like yer friend ‘n torture’d ter death in the dungeons.”

“We have to find him!” Jaskier cried as he shoved past the crowd, snatching up his belongings before dashing towards the exit. 

“Come on!” He cried, taking you by the wrist and dragging you out of the tavern.

“What are you waiting for? Get your things!” He expression a mixture of pleading and disbelief as he scrambled to secure the belongings onto the saddle. 

“Don’t just stand there!!” A few passersby stopped in their tracks and gandered as Jaskier cried out in frustration. “Geralt is in danger! Didn’t you hear what they said? He’s probably chained up somewhere in Eigallad’s castle being tortured to death…”

You stared off into the distance as Jaskier’s words faded into the background.

Caught between your abhorrence for the Witcher and the affection you bore for him, you stood, tethered to the ground, as the two conflicting sentiments fought to dominate your psyche.

_‘I-I should go save him.’_

Sprinkles of sleet trailed from your soles as you moved to take a step forward.

_‘No, I shouldn’t.’_

You halted, the heel of your boots hovering just above the ground of fresh snow.

Despite your initial urgency, your resolve to save the Witcher wavered as your subconscious whispered malicious words into your ears. Those disembodied voices flooded your mind with acrimonious thoughts; his obvious preference of Triss and Keira over you, and his intent to deceive you in order to save Cirilla.

_‘I really shouldn’t.’_

Retracting your step, an audible crunch sounded beneath your feet as you planted your boots back into its original shoeprint in the snow. 

You took a deep inhale. The logical parts of your brain rationalized the advocacy for Geralt's death; one less obstacle in the way of killing Cirilla; it would avenge whatever chagrin you suffered as a result of this travesty; besides, the penalty for saving his life would likely be at the forfeiture of your own, so why bother?

Yet, despite those justifications that substantiated his death, you just couldn’t let him be. Whether out of a sense of obligation or love, you refused to standby knowing the Witcher would otherwise succumb to an early demise. 

_‘Save him. Don’t save him. Save him. Don’t save him. Save hi-’_

Panic ensued as, shrouded by a wave indescribable emotions, you mind crumbled against the weight of your own indecision.

“Please.”

Sincere, frantic, and piteous, Jaskier pleaded as he took your hands in his own. “A-anything, I’ll do anything.” The warmth of his skin jolted you back to your senses as he implored with trembling eyes. “Just please, help me save my friend.”

The escalating pace of your heartbeat ached like shards of glass hammering to escape from your chest. 

“I-”

You stopped as a fist sized object tumbled out of Jaskier’s coat pocket. Without thinking, you dove forward and instinctively caught it midair but let it fall from your hands as déjà vu pierced you like a a pack of serrated spearheads.

_‘The perfume!’_

You froze, staring at the onyx colored object as you clutched your hands tightly to your chest. 

The traveling merchant's peddlings echoed in your ears as you recalled seeing this item by the Hanging-Man’s Tree. Indeed, this was the very same bottle of perfume that had sent people running from their prayers after they’ve witnessed your hands scorched by its silver accessories.

Yet, as you waited for the pain to arrive, the skin of your hands remained pain-free and pristine. 

Bending over with one arm resting atop your knee and the other hovering over the ground, you carefully examined the half-buried bottle cushioned in a pillow of snow. 

Careful to avoid its silvery details, you retrieved the obsidian bottle by its neck held it close to your eyes. The stopper was made of rose-colored gold with interlacing vines; hair thin and made of silver, that covered the entirety of the bottle. On it, the vines were adorned with countless leaves made of the highest grade of jade and emeralds. 

Trembling, you scrunched your face in anticipation as you took a deep breath and grasped the entire bottle with your bare hands.

There was no smoke, no pain as the silver remained unreactive to your touch.

Jaskier swallowed as you uncorked the bottle with a pop and sniffed, the familiar scent of devilwood blossoms filled your lungs as soon as the lip of the bottle reached your nostrils. It’s was your favorite. 

“What is this?” You asked, confused and bewildered.

“I-I um.” Jaskier’s voice quivered, eyes shady, as he shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

“Jaskier!”

The bard scrambled and hid behind his horse as you threatened him with a fist.

“Ok! Ok! I found it in Geralt’s room! Sheesh!” 

The bottle nearly slipped from your hold as Jaskier responded with a snort.

“G-Geralt?”

Perhaps mistaking your disbelief for anger at his thievery, Jaskier rambled as he sought to assuage your ire.

“I didn’t steal it if that’s what you mean! It was just sitting there on his nightstand! Some girl must’ve left it, who knows, why else would he have it?” He defended, folding his arms. “And neither of you paid me rent for months! I had to recover my loss one way or another!”

“A girl?” Though unrealistic, your heart sunk at the prospect. “You think he took a girl to his bedroom?”

“Uh, maybe?” Perplexed, Jaskier threw you a look of confusion as you focused in on that one particular detail.

“Actually, there was a note attached to it. Let's see… where the hell is that blasted thing?” Jaskier grumbled as he rummaged through his pockets. “I wish I had read it when I had the chanc- Aha! Found it! It’s says… God, Geralt has the handwriting of a 3-year-old.” Jaskier squinted at the crumpled piece of paper. “… uh, _Bruxa bait_.”

“Brux-”

The bard flinched as you lunged forward with inhuman speed and snatched the paper from his fingers.

"Bruxa bait." You repeated with a quiet laugh, amused and exasperated.

Upon closer inspection, you noticed the back of the parchment bore the insignia of a famed Novigradian jeweler, frequented by royals and wealthy families such as the likes of the Earl’s.

As the snowstorm lulled, your attention was drawn back to the bottle as a thin ray of light escaped from the veil of storm clouds above. The beam of light casted a dazzling gleam onto the ornamental vines that glistened brightly in the sunlight.

"Wait." You froze; the vines were far too reflective and far too light in color for it to be... “This isn’t silver!" You exclaimed, stepping away from the awning as you chased after the fleeting beam of sunlight; _‘It’s white gold!’_

You were speechless. So this is why Geralt was always short on money; this was why he forbid you to follow him around the city; and was why he was so bothered by your supposed predilection for those blasted roses from the Earl. 

The time, the effort, the cost… You grinned, swathed in an explosion of happiness. 

“Let’s go, Jaskier.” You ordered with newfound determination as you climbed onto your saddle. “We've got a wolf pup to rescue.”


End file.
